


Rotting Fantasyland

by Fawnfiction



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Gen, Page 250, The Death Cure, chapters 23 through page 250 rewritten from newt's pov, crank palace, newt's slow descent into insanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-05-27 08:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 33,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6277102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fawnfiction/pseuds/Fawnfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He briefly wondered where his friends were, if Minho and Tommy were on their way back, if they'd even bothered to think about him once since they'd left him there. If Tommy had read his note yet. He shook his head. He couldn't bother to think about those things now, although a bubble of anger rose in his chest. They'd left him here. Alone. And now he was never going to see them again.<br/>--</p>
<p>Chapters 23 of TDC through the infamous Page 250 rewritten from Newt's POV. Everything from being left behind in the Berg to his death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Hellucin8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fic that I've published online, so I'd really appreciate any reviews! :D
> 
> Quick note before starting, this fic was originally inspired/motivated by the album of a similar name "From Rotting Fantasylands" by Nero's Day at Disneyland. There's a sort of chaos in these songs that I think mesh very well with the apocalyptic Crank-filled world presented in TDC (songs like https://youtu.be/VRWplROIqfc?t=16m31s in particular). Because of this, I've included lots of little references to the songs and the artist throughout -- nothing big, just winks. Feel free to look for them or ignore them.
> 
> Also, I tried to write this fic in British English, seeing as Newt is British, but this hasn't been britpicked. Forgive me for any Americanisms.

He awoke with a start. His body tensed instinctively as he crashed into consciousness, whatever dream he'd had interrupted abruptly and forgotten forever. He opened his eyes. Then he opened them again.

The darkness was thick, penetrating. He couldn't make out a single thing, not one, and it crossed his mind that perhaps he'd gone blind. He blinked a few times, panic slowly rising in his chest, then widened his eyes until they stung, desperately trying to make out _something_. He waved a hand in front of his face before remembering the digital watch latched around his wrist. He scrambled to turn it on and flinched when a bright light assaulted his vision. Well, if he wasn't blind before, he bloody well was now.

He squinted, opening his eyelids just a smidgen, peering at the bright face of his watch. 4:10 AM. He'd slept for roughly four hours, then. Exhaustion pulled at his body, urging him to lie back down and fall asleep again but a faint voice inside his head told him that this would be a bad idea.

There had to have been a reason he'd woken up so abruptly at such a godforsaken hour. He was not necessarily a light sleeper. Years of having to sleep through the rumbling sounds of the changing walls ensured that. He had, instead, become attuned to close-range movement. Which meant that someone was in the room with him.

Horrible images flashed through his mind of enraged Cranks and Griever claws reaching out from the dark to pluck him up and take him away. He forced himself to take deep breaths and slowly reached down, remaining as quiet as possible, then cursed silently when his hand met the ground. He'd left the Launcher on the other side of the room. Well, no matter. He wouldn't have been able to aim the damned thing in this darkness anyway. He could only hope that the intruder – beast? Man? Both? – wouldn't find it.

He flipped over the seat cushion he'd been sleeping on and grabbed the knife he'd hidden underneath instead. He gripped the handle tightly, comforted by its weight. Granted, it wasn't as good as an electrified gun, but it would do.

The room was silent but for the sound of his shallow breathing. He crouched down, trying to make himself as small and invisible as possible, licking his lips in anticipation. The room slowly came more into focus as his eyes adapted to the darkness and he could see the rows of mismatched furniture stacked around the Berg's living space, still and lifeless.

He held his breath and tiptoed around the scattered furniture, his knife held high and at the ready, keeping to the shadows and trying his best to keep his limp under control.

Silence.

He was beginning to convince himself that his paranoia was just the result of a general lack of sleep and high stress when he heard the floor creak several metres to his left. There was definitely something there.

He dived behind a particularly large love-seat and steeled himself for a second before peeking around the arm of the couch. A dark lump sat in the corner of the room, large and menacing. He gasped and clamped a hand over his mouth, nearly stabbing himself with the knife in the process. Raw panic crept up through his chest, squeezing his rapidly beating heart. He could hear the blood pounding in his eardrums and he forced himself to take another shaky breath before turning and facing the direction of the large beast.

Newt paused, clutching the knife tighter as he crouched closer to the ground. The monster hadn't moved an inch, thankfully. He squinted, trying to discern what lay before him in the sparse light and what the best method of attack would be. It was much too dark to be able to tell what the creature was, but it didn't appear to have noticed him – asleep, maybe? Regardless, it was clear from the beast's lack of movement that he had the element of surprise now and there was no time to waste.

He steeled himself for a second before thrusting himself onto the back of the beast and thrusting his knife into its thick hide. A ripping sound followed as he jacked the knife down the length of the creature's body. Something spilled out from inside but he didn't bother to see what it was as he stabbed the creature again and again, adrenaline pounding through his system.

Not enough. It needed to be dead, _proper_ dead.

He snarled and gripped the handle of the knife tighter before twisting it, causing more of the inner material to pour out on the floor. Still unsatisfied, he set it aside and instead thrust his hand into the largest gash, digging around before tearing out a chunk of unidentified material and holding it up triumphantly. It was squishy and soft, pliable in his fist, almost like a sponge.

Wait. Something was off. He paused, turning the foam around in his hand and squeezing it. A glimmer of light shone through from the only tiny window, illuminating his corner of the room, finally allowing him to get a good look at the thing he'd massacred.

He was sat on a brown leather couch, the back and seat cushions of which had been completely torn apart, white down spilling out from long gashes and covering everything within a metre radius. A small piece of the white filling floated down and landed on the back of his hand, which still held the foamy substance he'd violently torn out of the couch moments before. He dropped the foam and rubbed his hands against his jeans, trying to wipe off the evidence of what he'd done, but only succeeded in transferring the white piece of klunk into the air and then settling back onto his body.

He whipped around, confused now. There had been a monster here earlier, he knew it, had felt its presence, but now the room seemed quiet, uninhabited. It took him a few more seconds before the pieces finally slotted together in his head and the red fury he'd been feeling earlier dissolved.

It was a couch.

He'd tried to kill a couch.

There was no intruder.

There had never been an intruder.

He was alone.


	2. Chapter One: Goodbye

“Good morning.”

An unfamiliar mechanical voice broke into his uneasy sleep and Newt gasped, shivering at the sudden cold as his blanket was wrenched violently away from him. He opened his eyes to find the business end of a gun in his face. A woman in a red shirt stood before him, the gun gripped resolutely in her hand. She wore some kind of a metallic maskover her mouth and nose so that only the top half of her face was visible. A younger man stood next to her, wearing the same outfit and mask, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Get up,” the woman holding the gun ordered. Her voice came out distorted, sounding more robot than human.

He lifted himself into a sitting position, raising his hands tentatively. He wanted to scream, to tear the gun away from the woman and break her face with it, but he held himself back, knowing full well that that wouldn't end well.

Instead, he managed to spit out: “What do you want?”

“Stand up,” she ordered, ignoring his question. “Keep your hands where I can see them. Anyone else hiding in here with you?”

“No,” he answered truthfully, standing on his still sleep-ridden legs. The two intruders were uncomfortably close to him, almost making it difficult for him to get off the couch he had been sleeping on in the first place. The backs of his knees pressed against the edge of the sofa cushion and he struggled against the urge to sit back down again.

The woman had a mean look to her, eyebrows furrowed and crow's feet etched around her eyes from too much frowning, probably. Her partner was much younger than her, early twenties from what Newt could guess, and still not quite as jaded as the woman was. The corners of a grin crept out from underneath his mask, his eyes more relaxed and glimmering with youthful mischief. He hadn't even bothered to take out his gun from the holster around his waist. Newt decided that if he were to try to make a break for it, the boy would be an easier target.

“I don't believe you,” the woman responded curtly and turned to her partner. “Damien, frisk him for me. I'll go search the place.” She removed the gun from his face and drew it over her chest protectively as she stalked off to the flight deck.

Damien nodded, shifting his shoulders and tugging at the straps of his backpack.

“Kay. Spread your legs and then stand, uh...” he glanced around the room, “up there, against that wall over there.” Newt obeyed, pacing over to the nearest wall and pressing the palms of his hands against the cold metal. Damien patted him down quickly, his hands skimming over every pocket, every spot on his person where he could possibly have hidden a weapon. Newt breathed a silent sigh of relief that he'd left the knife in the opposite corner of the room last night.

"Man, you guys are so lucky.” Damien's mechanized voice broke through his thoughts. Newt shivered – the sound was unnerving.

“Huh?” Newt grunted. Damien's hands passed over his pant leg and he resisted the urge to kick him in the face.

“Well, you know, you Munies. Don't gotta worry about gettin' sick or nothing.” Newt froze. Of course – if they'd assumed he'd been infected from the get-go, they wouldn't have even bothered waking him. They would have probably shot him in the head immediately, let him drift off in his sleep. For the moment, it seemed like they were treating him well enough, albeit a little roughly. “Course, you could still die if a Crank decided to get rough with you,” Damien continued. “And you gotta be careful what with all the disappearances, huh? My friend had a friend who was a Munie and one day he just – poof! Up and vanished.”

Newt's blood ran cold. Vanished? Suddenly, he wasn't entirely sure it was in his best interest for these two to think he was immune. And Tommy and Minho were still in the city...

“Okay. Turn around.” Newt followed his order, facing the young officer again. He swung his backpack around and unzipped the main compartment, rummaging around the contents within. Newt glanced at the exit to the Berg, about five metres ahead and to the right. He tensed, calculating how long it would take Damien to unholster his gun and whether it would be enough time for him to make it out.

“Aha!” Newt nearly groaned, shutting his eyes in frustration at the lost opportunity. Damien had pulled out a strange-looking machine, a long arm-like device with what appeared to be eye sockets at the end. Damien smirked at him.

“I know, I know. It's dumb. But, well, standard protocol and all, gotta have you tested before we can do anything else. And it's just my first week on the job, can't blow it by forgetting one of the most important parts.”

“Uh-huh,” Newt responded, staring at the machine apprehensively. Tested?

He should have run when he had the chance.

“Kay. Look into the phoropter.”

Not knowing what else to do, he leant forward and pressed his eyes against the sockets. He flinched as he felt a light prick on his neck, nearly tearing his face away at that moment, the tension of not knowing what came next putting him on edge. Flashes of light and colour burst into life inside the binoculars, making him feel somewhat nauseous before a puff of air forced his eyes closed. When he opened them again, darkness greeted him.

The machine hissed and clicked and he pulled his face away, assuming the test was over. Damien stared at a small device in his hand, his finger flicking over its surface as the machine continued to make noises.

For a moment, Newt let himself believe that perhaps, just maybe, he'd been lied to. That he was immune, always had been, and that his bouts of anger were nothing more than placebo, just the idea that he could be sick affecting his body and mentality. WICKED had lied about worse things before, this was nothing beyond what they would normally do. For a moment, Newt let himself believe that believing would be enough.

Suddenly, Damien's demeanour changed drastically and Newt resolved to never believe in anything again.

“Thea?” he shouted behind his shoulder. Damien was fidgeting nervously with his mask now, shifting it from side to side and tapping at the mouth piece.

“Yeah?” The woman from earlier trekked back from the cockpit, the grip on her gun much more relaxed, apparently content that the only threat in the Berg was a scrawny 16-year old boy. She carried the Launcher that Jorge had left behind for him in her other hand.

“This one's infected.”

“What?” The woman ran up to the phoropter, took a glance at the screen in Damien's hand, and nearly pistol-whipped Newt in the face.

“Down on the ground,” she ordered, no longer relaxed. “Now.”

“What's going on?” Newt asked, trembling, his hands balling into fists. The red haze from the night before began to settle on him again, painting the room in bright, sharp colours. “What do you want from me?”

“Get DOWN!” she spat, her finger on the trigger. “Damien, get the gel.” She refused to look away from Newt as she spoke to her partner, her harsh gaze locked onto his every action.

Damien pulled out a long, hose-like tube from his bag. It had a nozzle attached to the end, and he watched as the boy screwed the nozzle on tighter, his fingers shaking and sweating. Damien was obviously nervous, wiping his hands on his pants and playing with his mask. The mask was connected by a strap that looped around the back of his head. He was afraid of getting infected.

In that moment, he saw his opportunity. He raised his hands and began to kneel down, his eyes focused on the woman while watching Damien out of the corner of his eye. Newt took a deep breath, gathering as much saliva and phlegm as he could into his mouth and waited until Damien leaned forward, the tube in his right hand. Then, he sprang forward, snapping into a standing position and grabbing at Damien's mask. He pulled it down and coughed as wetly as he could onto the boy's mouth and nose.

The reaction was instantaneous. Damien screamed and wiped at his face, dropping everything in the process.

Newt used this to his advantage, snapping forward and tackling Damien to the ground, grabbing the gun from his waist as the young guard squirmed and shrieked underneath him. “Don't touch me!”

He whipped around and was about to threaten the woman when a sharp, splitting pain spread across his face and he found himself on the ground, the woman standing directly over him.

She stepped on his hand. “Let go.”

“No,” he spat, holding on to the grip tighter. She cocked her gun and aimed it at his head. Damien's gun was still held tightly in his fist but he couldn't shoot it, the woman's entire weight pressed down on his hand preventing him from being able to aim it at anything.He bent his wrist, trying to angle the muzzle upwards which resulted in the woman slamming her foot down harder. He winced as the bottom of her boot dug into his hand and he loosened his grip. She kicked the gun away from him, and he watched it skid away along with his hopes of escape.

“There,” she breathed before addressing Damien who was curled up on the floor a few metres away, whimpering and vigorously wiping at his face with his red shirt. “Boy, get over here. Bring the gel.”

“He coughed on me!” Damien whimpered, looking at Newt with fear in his eyes. The same man who had just been amicably chatting with him not two minutes ago was terrified, trembling as he pulled his mask on again. Newt might as well have been a slobbering, eight-legged monster for all the humanity that Damien saw in him.

“Well, you're going to have to get the fuck over it,” the woman barked, the end of her gun still trained on Newt's face. “You signed up for this shit. Think I haven't had my mask torn off once or twice?”

“Am I gonna get sick like him?” Damien whispered so pitifully Newt almost didn't hear him.

“If you're unlucky,” she responded. “But if you _were_ to get infected, it's already too late. So do me favour and grab the fucking gel tube before you croak.”

Damien obeyed, picking himself up off the floor and beginning to unravel the blue tube.

Thea turned back to Newt again. “Stretch your legs out and hold still. It'll be over in a second.”

“What's going on? Where are you taking me?” Newt asked, squirming around a bit before seeing the woman tighten her grip on the trigger.

“Disneyland,” she scoffed. Damien approached them now, his mud-stained boots standing directly in Newt's line of vision. A sort of staunch resolution had come over the young man's stature, the blue object gripped tightly in his hands and his face – or what Newt could see of it from this angle –looked more determined now, his jaw clenched tightly. His rapidly blinking eyes gave away the fact that he was still nervous.

“Wait,” Newt gasped. Damien eyed him cautiously, the blue hose pointed at him like a weapon – perhaps it was one. “Just – can I write a quick note to my friends?” he pleaded, lifting up the palms of his hands to show he had no tricks up his sleeves. “Then I'll do whatever you want. No more resisting. Promise. Just let me say good-bye.”

“Your friends – they infected, too?” she asked sceptically.

“No. They're in the city right now,” he ventured to tell the truth. There was no way they would have been let through security into the city if they'd been infected, at least not as far as the guard would be concerned, and he needed to make sure that Thea trusted him. “They didn't know I was sick.” That one was a lie. “They'll be worried if I disappear suddenly without any notice.”

A long pause stretched between them as she considered his request. “Alright,” she finally conceded. “But I follow you around.”

He nodded and she made a motion for him to get up. He stood gingerly, face aching and ankle agitated, heavily aware of the gun still pointed at his back.

“You have five minutes. Get going. We're busy people,” she ordered, nudging him in the back. “Damien, stay here. Get everything ready.”

Damien let out a strained “yes ma'am” before collapsing on a nearby couch and playing with the blue hose.

“Okay. I think there's some pen and paper in the cockpit,” Newt suggested.

“Very well. I'm right behind you,” Thea reminded him and they both set off, weaving their way through the mismatched furniture. He could feel her icy gaze boring into the back of his skull as the tip of her gun kept poking him at the nape of his neck every couple of seconds. It made him nervous and he had half a mind to tell her to stick that gun somewhere else, but he needed to behave, just this once.

He briefly wondered where his friends were, if Minho and Tommy were on their way back, if they'd even bothered to think about him once since they'd left him there. If Tommy had read his note yet. He shook his head. He couldn't bother to think about those things now, although a bubble of anger rose in his chest. They'd left him here. Alone. And now he was never going to see them again.

They made their way around the corner into the control room and Newt stopped in front of the pilot's seat. The plush seat was located in the front, near the large windows that took up the entire wall. Newt could see a series of purple mountains off in the distance, slumbering giants with white snow caps glistening in the early morning light. The control panel stretched across the front wall, hundreds of little buttons, switches, and levers scattered across the surface. A doll of a young woman with long, dark hair sat next to the ignition. She held a miniature ukulele in her hands and wore a long, grass skirt, her hips swaying from side to side as Newt opened and closed the drawers underneath the control panel. Various documents lines the insides of the drawers – memos, licenses, indistinguishable files. A book, in Spanish. He flipped through the pages and a photo of a younger-looking Jorge and an unknown woman fell out. Newt quickly tucked it back into the book, feeling as though he had invaded some private sector of Jorge's life.

He reached his hand deep into the last drawer, feeling for anything that vaguely resembled a pen. Newt gasped when his fingers finally found a black marker tucked into a corner alongside a crumpled yellow notepad. He ripped off the first sheet and smoothed the paper with his hand before setting the tip of the marker against the surface.

He paused, suddenly at a loss for what to say. The horizontal blue lines contrasted sharply against the blank yellow paper, reflecting the emptiness of his thoughts.

He supposed the truth was always a good place to start.

_They got inside somehow. They’re taking me to live with the other Cranks._

_It’s for the best. Thanks for being my friends._

_Goodbye._

He folded up the piece of paper and turned back to the guard. He suddenly felt the odd urge to cry, his eyes burning and watering.

“You done?” she asked, the expression on her face softening. She pitied him.

He hated that.

“Don't take it too hard, kid. This happens to a lot of people. We don't want to take you away from your friends, it's just our civic duty. We can't let the infected run around spreading the disease everywhere.” The harsh metallic sound of her augmented voice betrayed the comfort in her words.

Newt nodded, not really caring what she had to say. It was over.

“Yeah.” His voice cracked when he spoke. “Let's just go. I'll keep my promise.”

She nodded and let him walk forward.

He set the note on the closest chair to the entrance where he knew someone would find it and made his way back to where Damien was sitting on his couch, apparently having calmed down a bit, his hands clasped between his knees, breathing roughly into his gas mask. A pang of guilt hit Newt; the man wasn't any older than twenty-five and he may have just cut his lifespan down to the next few months.

“We're ready.” Thea nudged Newt forward with the end of her gun.

He stood abruptly, clutching the blue tube close to his chest. “He's not gonna jump at me again?”

“No, I'm done,” Newt responded, a dull ache growing somewhere in his head. He rubbed his forehead, pressing the pad of his thumb against the area just above the bridge of his nose. “Let's just get this over with.”

“Assume the standard position,” Damien ordered.

Newt laid down on the ground, arms pinned to his sides, his head turned so he could see underneath the couch. Dust bunnies littered the floor and he closed his eyes, wishing that the floor would disappear and take him with it.

Damien crouched down behind him and pressed the tip of the nozzle against the crown of his skull. He shivered at the cold sensation.

“Try not to move,” Damien stated.

Newt obeyed, taking a deep breath and relaxing his muscles as best he could. He heard the click of a button and the cold sensation spread, starting at the top of his head and moving down his body, numbing it as it went along. He could feel a thick liquid seeping into every crevice of his body, covering his ears and nose until he couldn't breathe or hear anything. He laid there in limbo for a second before drowsiness took him over and he passed out.


	3. Chapter Two: Rebirth

He heaved a deep breath, his lungs expanding, taking in as much oxygen as possible as bright light assaulted his vision. He flinched, struggling to cover his eyes with his hand but it wouldn't move, stuck somewhere at his side. He shut his eyes tight, letting his pupils adjust from behind his eyelids before opening them again.

The lower half of his body was still trapped inside a blue cocoon. He struggled to lift his arm out, watching the blue material turn into a lighter colour around his arm before finally cracking and breaking free of it.

He clenched and unclenched his fist, trying to get the blood flowing back into his system. His hand was ghostly white, pale as a sheet of paper, the veins inside a bright blue-green. It felt as though his heart had stopped while encased in the blue goo and his blood laid stagnant within his body, only now beginning to move throughout his body again.

He struggled to pull up his other hand next, gasping when he was finally able to pull free. He rubbed his arms, trying to get the circulation back through them again. They were sticky, the skin on the palms of his hands sticking to the trace residue left on his arms. He picked at a spot of blue on his elbow that refused to let go, revealing the unnaturally pale white skin underneath.

He was about to try and get his legs out when loud, panicked screaming diverted his attention. A man in his late-thirties off to his left had just been released from his blue cocoon and was screaming bloody murder.

“I DON'T BELONG HERE! I'M NOT SICK I'M NOT SICK I'M NOT SICK...” he shouted at the top of his lungs, repeating the words over and over, his eyes stretched wide open and unfocused. A guard marched over to him, Launcher in hand.

“Shut the fuck up,” he barked, his grip on his weapon tightening, looking as though he was about ready to pistol-whip the panicked man into submission.

“You have to believe me!” the man continued to yell, “I'm not infected. I'll die here! Please! Please, let me go.” Snot and tears were streaming down the man's face, his lips trembling, hair and body still caked with blue residue. His voice cracked as he pleaded softly, “I don't belong here. This is hell.”

“Security that collected you told me you were found in a café in Denver,” he responded monotonously. “Said you were on the Bliss and tested positive for the Flare.”

“That's a lie!” the man screamed again, desperation putting him on edge. “Please, just let me go. I promise I'll never go back to the city again, just don't send me here.” He reached forward to grab at the guard's clothing, his fist clenching the fabric of the man's shirt. Newt nearly didn't hear the next word that came out of his mouth, he grew so quiet. “Please.”

The guard smacked the man's hand away and roughly shoved him backwards, knocking him down onto the ground. He proceeded to curl up into a ball of mucous and tears.

His sobbing grated against Newt's ears, quickly getting on his nerves. The man was easily twenty years older than him and he was acting like a greenie fresh out of the box.

“Shut up!” the guard ordered, kicking him in the stomach. The man grunted in pain and curled up even tighter, his sobs quieting down. He made a strange little strangled noise as he calmed down. Newt couldn't help but chuckle. The man looked absolutely pathetic.

The guard moved away, satisfied that the man wasn't going to be creating any more disturbances, and started patrolling the entirety of the room. Newt and about nine other people had been released out of their blue cocoons in a single-file line into what appeared to be a large, white garage. For the moment, the guard appeared to be the only one in the room, although several others were passing by in a hallway to their left. He could see them through the large glass mirror situated a metre to the left of the sobbing man.

Most of the other infected had broken out of their blue casings by that point and each appeared to be at a different stage of the Flare. A couple seemed to be completely lucid, their eyes bright and skin clear. If he'd seen them in the outside world, he would never have guessed that they were infected. They gazed around the room with fear in their eyes, apprehension apparent on their faces, though they were able to keep themselves under better control than the panicked man. Newt's eyes met those of a young woman next to him. She stared at him with anxiety for a moment before glancing away.

Still some others were obviously closer to the Gone than he was. An older woman on the other side of the long room burst out laughing, her shrill cries sending shivers up his body. Another man a few people away was covered in scars and scabs, his face barely recognizable. He was chewing on his own arm like a deranged animal, snarling as blood broke through his skin.

Newt looked away, his stomach turning. The man wasn't even a human being any more, nothing more than the incarnation of a deadly virus. He crossed his arms, rubbing a hand self-consciously against his unbroken skin.

“Alright, listen up.” The guard was speaking now, standing in the front near a garage door that Newt could only assume led to the outside. “It looks like most of you are almost done hatching. So here's what's gonna happen. You're all gonna get in a nice, single file line and my buddy over there,” he pointed to a new guard who had just entered the room, “and I will escort you all to your new lodgings. There will be no screaming, no crying, no biting, hissing, or scratching until we get you all to your new homes, okay? Then you can all be as crazy as you want.” Newt flinched at the word “crazy.” “You're all gonna get into the vehicle my friend has set up outside this door and none of you are going to try to exit the vehicle at any time unless you have been explicitly told to do so. And no bathroom breaks, either. You gotta piss? Fucking hold it. Do. You. Under. Stand?” he enunciated these last words loudly, as if being sick negated their ability to understand English. Although, it didn't really appear as though the man chewing on his own arm had listened to a word the guard had said.

The young woman he'd made eye contact with earlier raised her hand. “Excuse me,” she began, her voice soft and nervous.

The guard, apparently taken aback by polite behaviour, paused for a second before nodding at her.

“Umm, I was told there would be treatment here. When will that be administered?”

The guard burst out laughing, his chest heaving up and down as he doubled over. The woman lowered her hand tentatively, a confused expression on her face. “What treatment? There is no treatment,” he sneered once he finally caught his breath. “Not unless you've got a ton of money to spend on some Bliss, and even that won't help you for long.”

“But --” she began.

“Enough,” the guard retorted, standing up straight again. “I don't care what some ad on TV may have told you out there in the city, but there is no cure and no treatment either. This is a containment facility, and you are all under quarantine. We'll give you the amenities you need to live out your lives, but then when you die, we'll replace you with another. That's the way it goes. That's the way it's always been. Capisce?”

She shut her mouth and wrapped her arms around her knees, a look of patent worry spreading across her face.

“All right. If there are no more questions, we're all going to line up in a nice and orderly fashion.” He tapped the top of the self-cannibalizing Crank's head. “No snacks until we get you to your destination, buddy.” He turned to the man who was still snivelling on the ground. “Get up. You're first in line.”

He whimpered something incomprehensible before getting up and trudging to the front of the room. “Rest of you now, get up. Let's go.”

Newt pried his legs out from the blue casing and gingerly made his way to the slowly forming line. The circulation in his body was mostly back to normal, though he still couldn't feel the usual ache in his ankle.

The second guard slammed his fist against a red button and the garage door began to lift, revealing a moderately sized vehicle that really looked more like a golf cart than anything else. There were no walls or windows to keep them from rolling out of the car – or to keep anything from coming in. The seats were small and dirty, made of oxidized metal.

Newt glanced around at the others. There were ten of them in total, twelve with the guards. They'd have to all cram themselves into the tiny vehicle if the guards had any hope of transporting all of them at once. Four of the infected seemed more or less sane, their faces reflecting normal human emotions ranging from fear to depression. Three looked a bit too angry for their own good, veins jutting out of their necks and jaws clenched tightly. Newt made a mental note to avoid them just in case any one of them suddenly decided to swing a fist in his general direction. Two were completely Gone. There was the self-cannibalizer who, for the moment, appeared to have forgotten about his arm and was instead gazing at the others with empty, glazed eyes. Newt leaned forward a bit, careful not to attract the Crank's attention yet feeling morbidly curious. His skin on his face was cracked, his lips chapped and bleeding. Blisters and rashes scarred his chin, cheeks, and nose rendering him almost inhuman. His eyes stood out from the rest of his damaged face, what was supposed to be white instead the colour of lemons, bright, unnaturally yellow.

Which left the woman who had been laughing earlier. She was presently talking to herself in hushed tones, her hands running through her patched, balding head.

Newt watched her as she grew closer, fascinated and repulsed at the same time. She was partially hunched over, her spine showing through her thin, worn-out blouse. A single whiff told Newt that she definitely hadn't showered in at least three weeks. Her clothes were tattered and filled with holes, ill-fitting on her lean frame. As she opened and closed her mouth to speak, he could see several of her teeth were missing, the ones left over yellow and decaying. Her head twitched and her whispering grew a little louder, just enough so that he could hear.

_“_ _All in all, the walls will fall._ _”_

She kept repeating the same phrase over and over. Newt shuddered. Somehow, the woman disturbed him far more than the Crank who kept eating himself. He couldn't even be sure there was anyone still present inside her head.

He never wanted to reach that level of insanity.

The guard began to direct the group again, mercifully distracting him from the deranged woman. “We all ready to go? Good. Get in the car and sit still. I'll drop each of you off one by one at your assigned residences. I did not pick these residences, so don't complain to me about 'em. Like I said before, keep your hands and miscellaneous body parts inside the vehicle at all times and if you see any beloved family members, tell 'em to hold off until we drop you off.” He took a breath, letting everyone crawl into the dingy golf cart. Newt found himself squashed between two constipated-looking men. One of them glanced down at him, sizing him up before grunting and looking away. Newt was about to make a retort when the second guard spoke up.

“Good evening, everyone. You'll all get to know this city real well, real soon.” The first guard pressed his thumb against a pad near the steering wheel and the car coughed to life. “Welcome home.”


	4. Chapter Three: No Money Down! Low Monthly Payments!

So this was hell.

Newt wasn't a very religious boy, not even back in the maze when many of the others turned to their respective gods to help them get through the terrifying nights, but he couldn't help but feel as though he'd already died and been sent downstairs. He must have done something horrible to warrant this. Maybe he had.

The “palace” was really more of a shantytown, rows of dilapidated shacks lining the streets. Most appeared to be unoccupied, though a few were shut tight, the curtains drawn and boards pinned up against the holes in the walls where there used to be windows. Shards of broken glass on the windowsills were the only thing suggesting that there had been any in the past.

The streets were empty, completely devoid of life. Trash littered the streets and constant potholes made the ride through the city bumpy and uncomfortable. A broken streetlight crackled and fizzed as it tried to come to life, emitting a weak spot of light before shutting off. Sharp, hyena-like laughter echoed from somewhere far away. Newt shivered, goosebumps rising on his arms.

The second guard droned on and on about the amenities that would be provided to them once they arrived at their respective residences. Newt half-listened, taking note of what seemed important. The guard mentioned something about a Central Zone, where they would be able to find most of whatever they needed.

“First stop,” the guard who was driving declared, halting the car in front of one of the abandoned shacks. “Get out,” he gestured to the sobbing man before procuring a single key. “Have a nice day.”

And so it continued as they slowly made their way deeper into the city, gradually shedding members of the little group as they were each dropped off at random houses, giving Newt more room to spread out in the tiny vehicle. The farther they drove, the dirtier and darker the streets became and he began to grow impatient. Which layer of hell were they going to decide to throw him into?

Finally, the car stopped in front of a small, blue house and the guard turned around to face him. “Looks like this is your new place, blondie.” Newt removed himself from the car, took the key the guard offered to him, and walked up the overgrown pavement to the front door. He heard the car rumble away behind him but didn't bother to look, instead choosing to focus on his new home.

The house was painted a light shade of blue, though much of the paint was faded and chipped now, revealing the aged wood underneath. Like all the other houses before it, this one had an empty windowsill, but no window. Tattered old curtains covered the hole in the wall, giving the inside of the house some privacy, though no protection. He supposed he didn't really need it.

He turned the little silver key in his hand, feeling the grooves against his fingertip before inserting it into the lock.

The door creaked open, revealing a dark, musty interior. He squinted, trying to make out what was inside before stepping in. The sun had already begun to set, which did not help to illuminate his new living quarters. He groped the wall to his side, struggling to find a light switch.

A lone light bulb over his head flickered on, dispelling the darkness in the room. It was tied to a string and dangled a few feet above him, swaying slowly from side to side. Dust mites danced in the air around the bulb like moths attracted to the light source. He sneezed, holding his nose and attempting to breathe through his mouth instead.

He began to take note of his surroundings, finding himself in a tiny entryway that led into the rest of the house. A few steps forward and he could peer around the corner of the wall into what appeared to be a living area.

The living room, like the rest of the house, was old and small, but seemed comfortable enough. A bed was shoved up against the outer wall, the thin purple curtains from the windowsill painting the daylight that trickled in a light shade of violet. He caught something in the corner of his eye, a vague, dark shape on the other side of the room and nearly had a heart attack.

A man was sat on one of the few pieces of furniture, a ratty old armchair. He appeared to be roughly thirty years of age, though it was difficult to tell with the incredibly overgrown beard and roughly twelve layers of grime on his face and hands. He sat with complete stillness, gazing off into the distance, his eyes unfocused. Newt began to doubt whether the man was even alive or just dead, his corpse held up by severe rigor mortis.

“Hello?” he stepped cautiously towards the still man, the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up. “Who are you?” he asked. The man didn't move or react but instead continued to stare off into space. He wore a simple suit underneath the dirt and detritus and a bright red nametag that read Hello, My Name Is Carlton.

“I'm Newt. This is my place now,” he said, stepping in the direction of his line of sight. “You crashing in here or did they just forget that you were supposed to be living here?”

No response. The man simply continued to stare forward, his eyes glassy and unmoving. Newt stepped to the man's side, placing his face at the same height and trying to find what it was that interested the man so much. It was just a piece of the wall that had begun to wilt, the paint cracking and exposing the drywall underneath.

He turned back to his catatonic flatmate, waving a hand in front of his face.

No response. Just the empty stare of a man lost forever.

“Okay,” Newt nodded, sitting down heavily on the bed. He sighed, combing a hand through his hair. He took in the rest of the room from his new angle, trying not to focus too much on the man's blank stare. The walls were painted an off-white, eggshell colour – though, much like the paint on the outside of the house, it was all chipping and faded, uncared for since it had been first painted, probably. A section of wall off to the right had been painted incorrectly, the strokes going from side to side instead of up to down. A small mouse-hole in the corner of the room alerted Newt to the fact that “Catatonic Carlton” wouldn't be the only unwanted flatmate he was going to have to live with – or die with, he supposed, given the situation.

Satisfied that the bearded man wouldn't be giving him any trouble, he moved into the adjacent room – a small kitchenette, only about as long as he was tall. Pots and pans lined the limited number of shelves, the bottoms of each caked with food remains.

He turned the stove on and a small fire burst to life, the blue flames lapping at the air. Well, at least one thing worked properly. He flicked the knob, extinguishing the fire, and moved on to the small refrigerator. He opened the door wide and stuck his face inside before realizing the inside was completely rotten, splotches of green and black mould caked on the walls. The hefty smell of rot assaulted his nose.

“Ugh,” he grunted, rubbing at his face with his sleeve. The fridge was completely out of the question. The bloody thing would need a high-pressure hose of heavy-duty bleach in order to even be considered non-toxic.

He headed off into the next room, a small bathroom located a few feet away from the hazardous fridge. A soft humming noise emanated from the walls as he turned on the lights. The room itself was small and cramped. A small shower and a beige porcelain toilet tucked into a corner behind the sink were the only things present. A scrap of toilet paper clung to an otherwise empty roll. A dirty mirror was perched above the sink, reflecting his own image back at him.

His hair was matted and dishevelled, the ends hopelessly knotted. It was dirty and unkempt, framing his equally dirty face. His skin was still pale, a paper-white that created an even sharper contrast against the dirt streaks and scars on the visible parts of his body. He rubbed at a spot on his cheek, licking his finger then pressing and scratching at it with his thumb. He grunted in frustration when the spot smeared, leaving a streak of grey in its wake.

“Bloody hell,” he growled, grabbing at the tap handle and jerking it upwards. He shoved his hand under the stream of water and just as quickly pulled it back, swearing profusely as the surprisingly hot water burned his skin, boiling his blood and coating the room in a red haze.

A sharp shattering noise brought him back to senses. He gripped the edge of the sink, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths, listening to the steady stream of water that continued to flow into the basin. His knuckles stung and he look down at his fist which was now bleeding.

He held his fist in his other hand, carefully making sure this time that the water was cool before dipping it into the sink. He hissed as the blood washed away, revealing a series of deep cuts.

In his pain-driven anger, he'd punched the mirror right in the centre of where his face was supposed to be. His reflection was now shattered into a hundred pieces, shards of glass falling out of the frame and onto the counter. He could still partially make out his own image through the cracks, as distorted as it was. Dark silver lines radiated out from the heart of the impact, located right between his eyes, through the rest of his face and ending at his neck. The shard of glass that was meant to reflect his right eye was missing and so were pieces around his lips and hair.

He hastily wrapped his hand up in a discarded towel, tying it as tightly as he could. The medicine cabinet revealed nothing of use for him other than a half-filled tube of toothpaste. His hand could become infected but he wouldn't have to worry about his teeth falling out just yet.

He stumbled back into the main room, sparing a glance at his flatmate who continued to sit in the same position as before, frozen in time. Newt tossed himself into the empty bed and leaned out the open window, already beginning to feel claustrophobic inside the small flat.

The temperature outside was crisp, much cooler than the Scorch or the Glade had been, but laced with a slight muggy feeling as if the very air itself had a fever.

The street directly outside his place was empty, the paved dirt road devoid of any kind of grass or flowerbeds, nothing but tough weeds that grew out of the corners of houses and made the neighbourhood look even more run-down and abandoned than it already was. Angry screaming echoed from somewhere near the centre of the city.

He settled back into the pillow, trying not to focus on the feeling of Carlton's eyes boring into his back or his aching hand or the sounds of insanity echoing through the streets, instead willing his mind to wander so that he could escape from this hellhole they'd dumped him in.

His eyelids fluttered shut and he allowed the memories of his past to run through his mind, images of the Glade and the homestead standing in sharp clarity, as though he were back, as though he'd never left.

The crops had been going through their third rotation before the last greenie was due to show up. The food would need to be harvested and the seeds replanted within the month.

And then Thomas had arrived. Tommy had arrived with his stupid, befuddled face, smelling of sweat and fear, just like the rest of his predecessors. But this time, Tommy had been different – even from the very beginning, he'd had a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes, an expression that he'd seen in few others. Newt flinched, curling up into a ball. Tommy and Minho were still out there – had they come back to the Berg yet? Newt could practically see Minho's face tighten with worry, his eyebrows pinching together as they always did when he didn't like what was happening. Minho would insist upon finding him, that much he was sure of. His stomach churned at the thought – he couldn't decide if he wanted that or not. His sudden burst of anger in the bathroom was not a good omen, nor were any of the other emotions he had been experiencing since the Ratman's announcement. And yet... his thoughts turned to the note he'd given Thomas. If Tommy had any scrap of intelligence in him, he'd read it as soon as they realized he was gone. And if he had any sense of friendship, he'd follow through.

A high-pitched whimper broke him out of his train of thought. He sat up, suddenly alert and wide awake. Time stretched on in silence and he began to think that he'd just imagined the noise. Then he heard it again, a faint sobbing, so quiet he almost didn't catch it. He peered out the window, craning his neck to the left, then to the right. Down at the end the deserted street, a few houses down, a small child was sat huddled in a foetal position. She was sobbing quietly, her cries interspersed with the occasional “mommy... daddy...”

Her long, light blonde hair flowed over her shoulders and down to her waist. Her back was turned to him and he could see her small fists pounding at the ground.

Newt's heart broke in two. She couldn't have been older than five and her parents were nowhere in sight. What kind of parents left their child behind like that?

He walked out into the street and began approaching the girl slowly, careful not to make any noises that would startle her or attract any other unwanted attention. As he got closer, he could see that there were patches of hair missing from her scalp.

“Hey...” he said softly, stretching out a hand and tapping her shoulder.

The girl snapped around and snarled, lunging at him. He screamed, stumbling backwards and holding out his arms, his hands trapping each of her shoulders and keeping her mere inches away from his face. She growled, her face an infestation of warts and cysts. Her eyes were bright yellow and part of her cheek was missing so that he could see the inside of her jaw. Thick saliva dripped from the unclosed part of her mouth and onto him.

She struggled to get at him, her teeth snapping and hands reaching forward, grabbing at the air. The right one was missing several digits. He kicked her in the chest and she flew backwards like a ragdoll, landing roughly on the ground. She stayed completely still and Newt was beginning to think he'd killed her when she curled up into a ball and started to cry out for her parents again.

Thoroughly disturbed, he stood and backed away from her. He was mainly uninjured from that scuffle, though his hand hurt something fierce.

He swallowed thickly and hurried back inside, making sure to lock the door this time.


	5. Chapter Four: What Goes Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is embarrassingly short, so I'm gonna post two in one day.
> 
> Enjoy.

It took Newt a while to fall back asleep after that. He lay in his bed facing the open window, the fevered breeze filtering through. He curled up under the sheets and shut his eyes tight, willing himself to lose consciousness finally falling asleep to the sounds of the night.

 

\--

 

The ivy tendrils wrapped tightly around his wrists, restricting the blood flow into his hands. And yet, he refused to stop, forcing himself to keep climbing, to keep going before he changed his mind, before he decided that this was a bad idea after all.

He looked up, not down. Never down. Despite what he was about to do, his true intention was to reach the sky, not the ground.

He made it halfway up the wall before he finally allowed himself to stop. He was breathing heavily, his arms shaking from strenuous effort. The vines were sturdy, but it still required all his upper body strength to keep himself tethered to the wall. He'd been climbing for roughly half an hour now and by his calculations, he had to be at least five storeys high.

It should be enough.

He glanced up at the clear blue sky one last time before closing his eyes and letting go.

Air rushed by his ears as he fell, engulfing his senses and rendering him deaf. He could feel his insides shifting, his stomach shoving itself into his throat as he fell faster and faster and faster before splashing into the ground, the dirt submerging him like water.

He opened his eyes and was met with a vast sea of darkness. Nothing but blackness all around him. He spun around. Black. He looked up. Black. He was floating in the middle of the nothingness, his arms and legs treading the murky water.

Water? As strange as it was, he did appear to be floating in _something_ , although it didn't quite feel the way water should. It felt thick and yet non-existent at the same time. The water didn't rush in between his fingers or soak into his shoes. In fact, he wasn't wet at all.

It was as though he were in a state of limbo, not quite dead, yet not quite alive, either. Just there. Schrödinger's Newt.

He blew out bubbles from his mouth and watched as they floated upwards. There was no reflection in them, just more endless darkness within. Little white circles drifting in an expanse of black.

His lungs ached and he realized he hadn't been breathing this whole time. He coughed, choking on nothing. The comforting darkness suddenly became suffocating, pressing down on every fibre of his being, squeezing the life out of him. His hand wrapped around his throat as he struggled to inhale air.

He focused all of his mental energy on his trachea, willing for it to open up as his lungs withered and strained for oxygen.

Finally, _finally_ , just as he was beginning to feel light-headed, he burst out into a coughing fit, saliva flying out of his mouth as he gagged on air.

He shuddered as his breathing returned back to normal. A few more seconds and he wouldn't have made it. He placed a hand on his chest, feeling it move back and forth reassuringly. He coughed and hacked a few more times, then wiped his mouth with his shirt.

His coughing fit had woken him up and he found himself back in his dilapidated flat. Despite the sunlight coming in through the closed curtains, the room was still dark. Carlton sat in the same chair he'd been sitting in the day before, his head in the clouds and his eyes staring into space.

“Thanks for the Heimlich, mate,” Newt said sarcastically, swinging his legs around and sitting up on the bed. He took a deep breath, relishing the air flowing into his lungs, though a small part of him wished he could have just faded away in his sleep.


	6. Chapter Five: Cleanup in Aisle Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “'Some—the lucky ones—are vegging on the Bliss in their homes. But most of them are in the Central Zone, eating or playing or up to no good. They’re sending us too many—and faster than we can ship them out. Add to that the fact that we’re losing Immunes left and right to who-knows-where, decreasing our ratio each and every day, and things were bound to reach a boiling point eventually. **Let’s just say this morning the water finally got hot enough.** '” -The Death Cure

He stood and stretched out his limbs, rubbing out the dull ache in his ankle which had started to act up at the memory of what had caused it.

He unwrapped the towel around his knuckles, and flattened his hand, hissing at the pain. The skin around his knuckles and fingers was red and swollen. He gulped and wrapped the towel around his hand again.

His stomach growled and he flinched, pinching the skin around his belly. He hadn't eaten anything since the night before he'd been found and he was beginning to feel the effects of it. He needed to find something to eat and something to disinfect his hand with, and judging by his investigation yesterday, it was clear he wasn't going to have any luck in his tiny studio. The guard had mentioned something about a market during their little “tour” and he supposed it was as good a place as any to check.

The day outside was the same as it was the day before – a chill in the air broken by feverish wind. He could practically feel the Flare virus crawling on his skin and sinking into his pores.

 

\--

 

The Central Zone was a bustling area of about a hundred metres in length, surprisingly full of life for a place full of death. People moved from one end of the run-down plaza to the other, chatting and seemingly making the most of their shucked lives. But for every relatively sane Crank present there were at least two that couldn't have been able to conceal the disease if they'd tried. They cried and laughed and violently fought one another, unable or unwilling to control their emotions. Most of the shops had fallen into disrepair, abandoned and left to rot. Even the few trees that had been planted to beautify the place were withered and dry.

He wandered closer to the nearest functioning shop. A bell jingled as he opened the door and walked in. It looked like a relatively normal grocery store, albeit rather broken down and untidy, products hastily jammed onto random shelves, the floor covered in debris. Though, he supposed, there was no logical reason why he should know what a grocery store was supposed to look like – he'd never been in one before, as far as he could remember. Aisles stretched out between the front counter and end wall. A handful of people loitered around the store, their gazes flicking about nervously. They checked Newt out for a couple of seconds before deciding that he wasn't an immediate threat and continuing on with their shopping.

He wandered a bit closer to the product aisle, baskets of fruits and vegetables lining various tables. He picked up a tomato, turning it over in his hand. It was too shiny, too red, as if it had been manufactured in a factory instead of grown out of the ground. He could practically see his own face reflected back at him. He held it up to his nose, sniffing at the vegetable. The earthy smell transported him back to the gardens the trackhoes kept in the glade – the various crops that always seemed to grow without limit, as though harvesting season was every day of the year.

It had all worked grandiosely until Tommy showed up. Tommy's face sprung up into his mind, the expression of confusion when he came out of the box, then the one of determination before they left the maze. Fury surged through him suddenly and he crushed the tomato in his fist.

“Ugh – !” he grunted as the tomato juice sprayed everywhere. He dropped the leftover mush back into the box with the rest of the untouched produce and wiped his hand on his jeans.

“Are you going to pay for that or just pretend like it never happened?” A voice spoke up somewhere to his left.

Newt started, snapping his head in the direction of the voice. A young woman in her mid-twenties stood behind the front counter, the tips of her fingernails tapping against the surface impatiently. She leaned on her other elbow, an expectant look on her face.

“Oh – uh – I don't have any money,” Newt stammered, glancing down at the mess he'd made. The tomato was nothing more than a red pile of liquid and skin, seeds sticking to the other undamaged tomatoes.

“Well, then, today's your lucky day, newbie,” she responded, sizing him up for a second before turning her attention back to her nails. “Fresh meat eat for free. Just get some dough next time.”

“Oh, er – thanks, I s'ppose.” He hastily grabbed a basket and shuffled over to one of the aisles, not very keen on making conversation with anyone. Most of the shelves were filled with canned goods; with the exception of the fruits in the front, perishables didn't appear to be very popular here. Even the cans themselves were covered in dust, as if they hadn't been touched in ages. What did people eat here? How did this market even manage to make a profit? It was no wonder so many of the others had been shut down and abandoned.

 _No fresh meat or spices?_ _Sounds worse than the Flare,_ Frypan's voice echoed in his thoughts as he perused his meagre options. Newt's heart sank at the thought of his friend's grub, as questionable as it could be sometimes. He was stuck with pre-made baked beans and spam now.

“HEY!” Sudden yelling from the neighbouring aisle made him jump again. Annoyed at being startled a second time, he pushed aside a stack of spaghetti-o's on the shelf nearest him and peered through to the other side. A young boy was backing up, his hands lifted above his head. A guard was stalking forward towards him, his Launcher aimed at the boy menacingly. The guard was screaming louder now, spittle flying out of his mouth.

“You didn't think I saw you do that, you little prick? Think you can just steal things and get away with it? I don't care how sick you are.” Newt heard a grunt and then a thud as the boy fell to the ground. Something clicked inside of him at the sound of the teenager in pain and his blood began to boil. He gripped the edge of the shelf, trying to take deep breaths as the situation escalated. Somewhere inside his brain, a bubbling sound buzzed to life, faint but just loud enough to bother him.

Concern for the boy overriding his instinct for self-preservation, he walked around the shelf separating the two aisles so that he could get a better view. The boy continued to grovel on the floor, not bothering to say anything in his defence. He looked to be about fifteen, though his emaciated body made him look even younger. His shaggy, unkept hair covered his dirty face. There was a large, nasty bruise already forming on his cheek from the blow he'd been given. He started to get up on his hands and knees.

“Stay down!” the guard yelled. The boy ignored his order and tried to sit up. The guard pulled the trigger and the boy yelped and flailed about helplessly as the electric grenade hit him square in the chest.

Newt grabbed an apple from a nearby stack and chucked it at the guard's head before he had a chance to consider what he was doing. It hit the back of his head and rolled away.

“Oy! Was that really necessary?” Newt shouted. He clenched his teeth, a small part of him worried of what he might say – or do – next, but unable to stop himself.

“You stay out of this,” the guard growled, swinging his Launcher around to face Newt. He rubbed the spot where the apple had landed, the sore look on his face making it clear that he was lucky the guard hadn't just turned and shot at him immediately.

“I'm just asking a question,” Newt continued, stepping forward and raising his hands slowly. “There's plenty of fights going on outside. Why pick on the kid?”

“Stay where you are, _C_ _rank,”_ the guard bellowed, tensing his finger on the trigger. “I am not in a good mood today and I don't want to deal with two of you in one day.”

“Are you sure you're not the Crank?” Newt barked, the words flowing out of him now without his bidding. “Only people with the Flare get irrationally angry like that.” He pointed his thumb towards the whimpering boy, his eyes still locked on the guard's face.

“I'm immune, dumbass. That's why I work here with you weirdos,” the guard spat.

“I'm just sayin' – since you're the one who's not infected, maybe you should try acting more... civilised?” Newt had crept up next to the guard now, standing toe-to-toe with the hulking man.

“Make another fucking move and I shoot,” he threatened, the barrel of the gun now directly in his face. His lips quivered as he did so, a flicker of his true emotions showing for a split second. He was _scared._ “Actually, do it. With any luck it'll kill you. One less of you to worry about.”

Newt looked up at his agitator, a tall man with light blue eyes and a burn mark on his cheek. The guard's eyes were hard and full of indifference. He looked at Newt as though he were a wild animal to tame, to keep from killing anyone uninfected. Anger surged through him, roaring in his ears and drowning out all rational thought. He focused on the spot between the man's eyes and the next five minutes were a complete blur.

The next thing he knew, he had somehow toppled the guard over and was repeatedly bashing his face in with the butt of the Launcher. He grunted as he thrust the Launcher again and again with all his strength, trembling in rage. Something cracked loudly and the man howled in pain before falling unconscious.

Newt continued pounding at the guard, the buzzing, squelching sound in his ears growing louder and louder before suddenly stopping. He paused mid-thrust as the fog of rage lifted and he became acutely aware of what he was doing.

He was straddling the man's chest, his legs pinning his arms down to the ground. He'd somehow managed to grab the guard's weapon and had used it to bash the man's face in beyond all recognition. His nose and cheekbones were broken and his left eye had sunken into his now misshapen skull. His head lay in a pool of blood.

It was deadly quiet in the market. Everyone had stopped what they were doing, all eyes on him as if he'd grown another head.

And then, chaos erupted. It was as if the town had been on the brink, waiting, looking for an excuse, however small, to topple everything into mania. Everyone in the store began screaming and kicking, attacking each other and everything around them. Cranks crashed through the windows and knocked down the aisles of food, stomping on the cans. The batch of tomatoes he'd been looking at earlier were scattered and smashed on the ground, staining the tiles dark red. A couple of Cranks who'd joined the commotion from the outside grabbed the cashier by the hair and pulled her screaming and kicking over the counter. The boy Newt had defended was nowhere to be seen.

Newt grabbed a handful of apples, shoving them as best he could into his pockets, and weaved his way outside, largely ignored by everyone now that all hell had broken loose. He ducked behind and through alleyways, clutching the Launcher he'd stolen close to his chest.

He'd made it a couple blocks down the Central Zone when a hand grabbed him and pulled him into one of the old, dilapidated buildings.

“Piss off!” he barked, struggling against the arms that had managed to firmly wrap around his torso. The apples fell out of his pockets and onto the ground as he tossed himself from side-to-side.

A hand clamped down over his mouth. “Shh! Calm down, boy,” a voice hissed into his ears. “Stop squirming and I'll let you go.” Newt grunted in frustration but obeyed, relaxing his body and shoulders. He gripped the Launcher tighter, determined to at least not lose that. The arms finally let him go and he was able to turn around and see his captors.

Three people stood before him, all three of relatively medium to small size. They looked about as malnourished and unhealthy as the rest of the Cranks in the city. He could take them down. He pointed the Launcher – _his_ Launcher now – at the man he guessed to be the leader, a young man of slightly above average height with jet-black hair.

“Relax we're not gonna hurt you,” the shank spoke. His voice bothered Newt – it was low and monotonal, almost like the sound of buzzing flies around a carcass. He leaned down and picked up the apples one by one, not once breaking eye contact, before handing them over to Newt.

“Nice toy you got,” he stated, pointing to the Launcher in Newt's hands.

“It's _savage_ out there!” the other man next to him cackled. “You the one that started this riot? Boy, I would've liked to have caught that on camera!”

“Allow me to introduce ourselves,” the first man spoke up again. “I'm Nero. And these two hoodlums are Huang and Lauren,” he gestured in the direction of his two companions.

“Cheers,” Newt responded. Huang and Lauren were sweaty, their clothes ragged and unwashed, a crazed look in their eyes. Despite their outward appearance, he could tell they were still very much in control of themselves.

“Aw, he's so cute,” Lauren cooed. “I love his little accent. Can we keep him?”

Nero gave her a pointed look and she visibly deflated, crossing her arms over her chest and pouting. Nero turned back to Newt. “Listen, buddy. That weapon you got in your hands – we could use it.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I'm not done. We don't want to take it from you. You can keep it. We just want your help.”

“Help with what?”

Nero paused, the expression on his face clearly considering how much he could let Newt know.

“There's a plan,” Nero scratched at his ear before continuing, “me and a group of others – we're gonna break out of this hellhole and into the main city later tonight. I can't stand staying here one more day – and it won't be hard. Guards have been disappearing lately. That's why it was so easy for a riot like this to get so out of hand. One more skirmish like this and the whole palace will collapse. Even the security in Denver's been lax. Cranks have been sneaking in for weeks now. All this needs is one more _push_ ,” he pressed a finger against Newt's forehead and pushed lightly, “and the whole state will be ours.”

“What do I have to do with this?” Newt asked, though he felt the answer coming.

“Every army needs weapons. And young blood.” Nero gestured at the area around him. “What've you got to lose?”

Newt lowered the Launcher, rubbing a finger over its metallic surface. The riot outside was his fault. He'd started it. He was responsible for the violence erupting outside – among other things, he thought, as he glanced down at the blood staining the weapon in his hands.

He had nothing to lose.

“What's the plan?”


	7. Chapter Six: Spare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains dialogue from The Death Cure. All of that as well as The Maze Runner and its characters, etc. are © James Dashner.

They were to meet that evening in the East Fourth Ring, next to the lion statue, once dusk had fallen. Others were to be set up in strategic locations in order to take down as many guards as possible. Newt's group was the lucky one that would, if successful, break out and take a van to the city. After waiting for a signal, he, Nero, Huang, Lauren, and a handful others were to storm the outside gates as quickly and ruthlessly as possible.

“Take no prisoners,” Huang had said.

Newt wasn't so sure about that – despite what he'd done not one hour earlier, he still didn't fancy giving in to his feral instincts and killing people. He was glad that the Launcher would only incapacitate the guards, not obliterate them.

The three Cranks left after debriefing him, patting him on the back and telling him not to croak until after he helped them out. Then he was alone again.

He took in his surroundings. He was in an abandoned bowling alley – well, one could say it was abandoned, but plenty of people were using it now, just not for its intended purpose. The entire thing was dilapidated, entire sections of floor missing, one particular hole in the ground stuffed with a bowling ball. Dozens of people huddled in the lanes, tending to small fires, trying to keep warm in the chilly Coloradoan morning. With the exception of those in charge of the flames, most of them were asleep, blissfully unaware of the riot that had just taken place outside. Or perhaps they didn't care.

He made his way to the farthest lane on the left and curled up in the corner, undecided as to what to do next, but sure he didn't want to go back to the hellhole of his apartment. He shifted a bit, opting to conceal the Launcher between his side and the wall. There was no question that a fair number of the people in the vicinity would kill for such a weapon.

He crunched down on one of the apples he'd stolen, hoping to at least satisfy the hunger gnawing at his insides. They tasted stale and unsatisfying, and had Newt not been starving, he would've sworn they were fake. His lunch attracted the attention of a group of cranks in the neighbouring alley, their faces tilting in his direction as he took another bite.

“You gonna share those?” one of the men in the group called out to him. He ran a hand through his greasy hair and Newt suppressed a loud groan. Did everyone in this blasted town want to bother him?

He tossed a couple apples at the man and, thankfully, his group appeared to be satisfied with this. The man gave Newt a thumbs up and turned back to the card game his friends were playing.

Done with eating, Newt curled up in the corner and closed his eyes, listening to the fires crackle and burn, dreaming of a giant blazing inferno swallowing him up along with the rest of this godforsaken excuse of a city.

 

\--

 

“You Newt?”

Newt awoke with a start at the sound of his own name.

They'd found him, identified him somehow. Of course they had. He gulped and sat up to face the two guards that had kicked him in his sleep. They both looked tired and beaten, their uniforms dirty and torn in places.

He briefly considered shaking his head no, pointing them in the wrong direction. But what for? Worst case scenario, they would kill him on the spot. Not so bad, really.

He nodded, making eye contact with the shorter, bald guard.

“Your friends are outside, lookin' for you.”

His heart froze. His friends. This wasn't about the riot at all. They'd come for him.

_Shuck._

His hand stung.

“Tell them to piss off.” He injected as much poison into the words as he could muster. He couldn't – he couldn’t afford to see them, not after the morning's events.

The guard shrugged. “Kay. No skin off my back.”

And just like that, they left.

But they would come back. Minho never could take no for an answer.

He considered getting up and leaving, but couldn't be bothered. He was tired. If they came, then they could come. And if he left, they'd find him again. It would be best to get it over with now.

 

\--

 

Sure enough, twenty minutes later, hushed whispers announced the arrival of a new group. He could just make out Tommy's voice but he couldn't bring himself to look at them. He stayed curled up in his corner of the building and waited.

An atmosphere of intense apprehension fell over the bowling alley as they slowly made their way towards him, coming closer each second yet neglecting to call out his name. They were scared of him. His chest tightened. A confrontation was unavoidable now.

“I told you bloody shanks to get lost!” He barely recognized his own voice, it was loud and explosive and menacing, echoing off the rickety wooden walls which augmented its volume tenfold.

He could sense the hesitation in his friends.

“We need to talk to you,” Minho's voice echoed back. Softer. Worried. Closer.

“Don't come any closer,” Newt answered. His hand burned badly now and the buzzing sound from earlier had returned. He ignored them. “Those thugs brought me here for a reason. They thought I was a bloody immune holed up in that shuck Berg. Imagine their surprise when they could tell I had the flare eating my brain. Said they were doing their civic duty when they dumped me in this rat hole.”

Tommy was the one to speak up next. “Why do you think we're here, Newt? I'm sorry you had to stay back and get caught. I'm sorry they brought you here. But we can break you out – it doesn't seem like anyone gives a klunk who comes or goes.”

They weren't listening to him. Newt turned to face them, grabbing the Launcher next to him. Tommy, Minho, Jorge, and Brenda stood less than three metres away from him. The expressions on their faces ranged from worried to determined to piteous.

“Woah, there,” Minho flinched and took a step back at the sight of Newt's weapon. Newt felt a twinge of satisfaction at that. “Slim it nice and calm. There's no need to point a shuck Launcher at my face while we talk. Where'd you get that thing, anyway?”

“I stole it,” he responded. The weight of the Launcher in his hands grew heavier at the thought of what he'd done to get it. “Took it from a guard who made me... unhappy.” The buzzing sound in his ears rang louder at the memory of the guard's face crunching under his brute force, the blood spilling out from his broken eye socket.

His hand shook as he struggled to keep his surging emotions in order. They'd left him, they'd left him behind and he'd killed a man and he'd kill more if this didn't end soon.

“I'm... not well,” Newt said, trying to come up with some string of words that would convince his friends to leave him. “Honestly, I appreciate you buggin' shanks coming for me. I mean it. But this is where it bloody ends. This is when you turn around and walk back out that door and head for your Berg and fly away. Do you understand me?”

“No, Newt, I don't understand.” Minho was visibly frustrated now, his short temper beginning to get the best of him. “We risked our necks to come to this place and you're our friend and we're taking you home. You wanna whine and cry while you go crazy, that's fine. But you're gonna do it with us, not with these shuck Cranks.”

_Shuck! What a stubborn slinthead._ Anger pulsed through his veins like the fire that was eating up his hand. He jumped up and swung the Launcher in Minho's direction, barely keeping himself from pulling on the trigger. “I am a Crank, Minho! I am a Crank! Why can't you get that through your bloody head? If you had the Flare and knew what you were about to go through, would you want your friends to stand around and watch? Huh? Would you want that?” Hot rage filled his senses, cranking up the crackling noise somewhere inside his ear canal to full blast. He almost couldn't even hear his own voice above the sound.

Minho, for once in his life, remained speechless. If only he'd known earlier that the only way to shut him up was to go insane. He stole a quick glance at Tommy. The boy was standing there with the same dumbfounded face he'd had the whole time they'd known each other. It finally dawned on him. He hadn't read the note.

“And you, Tommy,” he spat. Waves of disgust and anger rolled over him. “You've got a lot of nerve coming here and asking me to leave with you. A lot of bloody nerve. The sight of you makes me sick.”

Tommy looked taken aback. “What are you talking about?”

He really had no clue. He lowered the Launcher as the roaring in his ears finally subsided a bit, allowing him to clearly hear Tommy's next words.

“Newt, I don't get it,” Tommy was much quieter now, his voice almost a whisper, yet full of determination. “Why are you saying all this?”

He sounded pitiful, like a kicked puppy. Newt looked up and made eye contact with his friend again. “I'm sorry, guys. I'm sorry. But I need you to listen to me. I'm getting worse by the hour and I don't have many sane ones left. Please leave.”

Tommy was about to say something but Newt interrupted him before he could try to argue. “No! No more talking from you. Just... please. Please leave. I'm begging you. I'm begging you to do this one thing for me. As sincerely as I've ever asked for anything in my life, I want you to do this for me. There's a group I've met that are a lot like me and they're planning to break out and head for Denver later today. I'm going with them.” He paused, his thoughts going over Nero and his group and what they were planning on doing that night. “I don't expect you to understand, but I can't be with you guys anymore. It's gonna be hard enough for me now, and it'll make it worse if I know you have to witness it. Or worst of all, if I hurt you. So let's say our bloody goodbyes and then you can promise to remember me from the good old days.”

“I can't do that,” Minho said.

“Shuck it!” Newt yelled, his control over his emotions dissipating. “Do you have any clue how hard it is to be calm right now? I said my piece and I'm done. Now get out of here! Do you understand me? Get out of here!”

Newt watched as his lovely neighbours, attracted by the commotion they were making, crept up behind his friends. The greasy-haired one that had asked for his apples earlier poked Tommy in the shoulder, startling him.

“I believe our new friend asked you people to leave him alone,” the Crank rasped, licking his lips in anticipation.

“This is none of your business. He was our friend way before he came here.”

Newt watched in disbelief as the argument escalated, the boys refusing to leave, the Crank insisting that they do so, and Minho's temper making the whole situation worse.

Then hell broke loose for the second time in one day. He watched as the Crank pulled out a jagged piece of glass and swung it at Thomas, causing Thomas to duck and Minho to leap at him. They both fell to the ground on top of a sleeping woman and began rolling around, trying to get a chokehold on each other.

“Stop it!” he yelled, lifting the Launcher at aiming it at them both. “Stop it now!” He shivered as another wave of anger and frustration rolled over him. Nobody _ever_ listened to him had _ever_ appreciated what he'd done for the Gladers, this was typical, shucking typical...!

“Stop or I'll start shooting and not give a buggin' piece of klunk who gets hit.”

The two brawlers stood and let go of each other, their gazes locked on Newt's weapon. Apple Crank kicked the woman they'd fallen over as he picked himself up. Newt's finger pulled the trigger before his brain even caught up and the Crank fell over in a burst of electricity, his limbs twitching and seizing in pain.

“I told him to stop,” Newt muttered, watching his second victim of the day writhe around on the ground. He should probably have felt guiltier for what he'd done, but he only felt a bone-weary exhaustion settling in his chest. He summoned the energy he had left and aimed the Launcher at Minho. The weapon felt much heavier than before and his arms shook as he tried hold it up. “Now you guys leave. No more discussion. I'm sorry.”

Minho held up his hands. “You're going to shoot me? Old pal?”

“Go,” Newt insisted, trying to focus on the control in his fingers as the crackling noise inside his ears started up again. “I asked nicely. Now I'm telling. This is hard enough. Go.”

“Newt, let's go outside...”

“Go!” Newt snarled, gripping the weapon tighter. “Get out of here!”

“Let's go.” To his surprise, Tommy spoke up. His friend's voice broke as he continued, “come on.”

Minho's face fell. “You can't be serious.”

Thomas nodded and Minho visibly deflated. “How did the world get so shucked?”

Newt's heart broke at the sight of his friend in pain. They'd been friends as far back as his memory allowed him to remember, which might as well have been his entire life. This was it. Saying goodbye to Minho was essentially saying goodbye to his life, to everything that made him him for the past two years.

“I'm sorry,” he said, blinking as his eyes burned and started blurring with tears. “I'm... I'm going to shoot you if you don't go. Now.”

Despite his vehement demands, Newt's heart sank as he watched them leave. A piece of him desperately wanted to call out to them, tell them that he'd changed his mind, that he'd go with them, but he'd made his choice. It would do no good to go with them, anyway.

Tommy grabbed Minho and Brenda, dragging them away without looking back. The only one who paused to look back was Jorge. He looked solemn yet accepting of Newt's decision, as though he understood what Newt was going through. Jorge nodded at him before finally leaving with the others.

Once they'd left, Newt curled up in an isolated corner of the building. He hid his face in his shirt as he sobbed himself to sleep.


	8. Chapter Seven: Great Fire of Avon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> '“Yeah,” Jorge answered. “We passed over [the Crank Palace] on the way here. It’s just on the far side of this valley, right up against the mountains to the west... We'll be there in twenty minutes.'" -- The Death Cure.
> 
> Avon, CO is a small town located two hours by car (10-20 minutes by plane/Berg) west of Denver on the other side of the Front Range mountain range in the middle of a national forest. The population is small and the only thing connecting it to another city is Interstate 70 which curves its way through the mountains, thus making it the perfect spot to build a Crank Palace.
> 
> [Here](https://www.google.com/maps/place/Denver,+CO/@39.6400874,-106.5165644,3a,75y,259.49h,82.19t/data=!3m8!1e1!3m6!1s-ihwmJM5Ovcc%2FVWNRArUEPBI%2FAAAAAAAAAjc%2F0_4kQMadTCc!2e4!3e11!6s%2F%2Flh3.googleusercontent.com%2F-ihwmJM5Ovcc%2FVWNRArUEPBI%2FAAAAAAAAAjc%2F0_4kQMadTCc%2Fw203-h101-n-k-no%2F!7i10240!8i5120!4m2!3m1!1s0x876b80aa231f17cf:0x118ef4f8278a36d6!6m1!1e1) is a photosphere of the area.

Newt waited until dusk had fallen before making his way onto the streets. The palace was an entirely different place at night. It was dark and forbidding, the only source of light coming from the stars above and the occasional functional streetlamp. The air was cold and bitter that night. Someone, somewhere hopefully very faraway, shrieked or laughed or died – the sounds of the insane were a bit hard to differentiate. Newt shivered; the sooner he could meet up with the group and get out, the better. He couldn't care less if they went to Denver or not, but dying in a city for the clinically insane didn't seem like an honourable way to go.

He hurried over to the arranged meeting spot, trying to keep up a quick pace but not so fast as to attract unwanted attention. The city seemed to only get darker and more intimidating the farther he walked away from the Central Zone. Very few people were out and about at night; most had locked themselves in their houses in the hopes that they could survive at least one more day. The only people who walked around after dark were the ones clearly past the Gone and the ones who were up to no good. And him. He wondered which one people would pin him as.

He turned a corner and there it was – a large concrete lion stood in front of an abandoned library. It was a little worse for wear, its stone hide covered in explicit graffiti and body parts missing. Its right paw had been hacked off entirely. The guardian of the library had become the community dustbin, bottles of alcohol and other pieces of rubbish piled into the lion's mouth.

Newt whistled into the dark, his eyes peeled for any signs of movement. Without a torch, it was impossible to tell if anyone was standing farther than a metre from his face. A terrifying thought niggled at his mind. This could be a trap. It would be all too easy to stage an ambush in the dark.

No. No, that was ridiculous. He was just being paranoid. If they'd wanted his weapon, they would have taken it back at the bowling alley. It was three against one, he'd have been overpowered. Nevertheless, he tightened his grip on the Launcher.

“Over here!” a woman's voice called to him from the darkness. He followed the shout up the library steps. Lauren was leaning out the door, waving to him enthusiastically. He could just make out Huang pacing back and forth next to her.

“Where's Nero?” he asked as soon as he approached them.

“Getting things ready,” she responded. She yawned and sat down on a stack of books near the entrance. Both of his new partners in crime carried their own Launchers now. For a second, Newt was tempted to ask how they had acquired them, but decided against it.

“You scared, blondie?” Huang pounced in front of him and raised his Launcher, aiming it square at his chest. He smirked and pretended to pull the trigger, imitating the sound of an explosion before lowering his weapon.

“Get that shuck thing away from me, you slinthead,” Newt snapped.

Huang stared at him in shock for a second before bursting out into laughter. “I have no idea what the fuck you just said!” He ran out and started dancing on the lion's back. “Is that the way they talk in your Eurotrash country?”

Lauren grabbed his arm before he could beat the klunk out of the other Crank. “Don't pay any attention to him,” she advised, pulling him back inside. “He's just trying to rile you up.” She winked at him.

Newt shook off her arm and sat down on an overturned pot a few feet away.

“Whatever makes you feel better,” Huang muttered as he straddled the lion like a horse.

“Save the fight for the guards.” Nero's silhouette emerged from the shadows, mercifully breaking the tension between the three. “I assume you're all ready?”

“Ready as ever,” Lauren cackled. “Hi, Morty!”

Nero had brought about half a dozen people with him, Cranks Newt had never seen before. Each one of them was armed with a weapon of some kind, mostly knives and shards of glass. A few held Launchers of their own. A flash of silver in Nero's waistband hinted at the firearm he was packing. One of the cranks, presumably Morty, grunted in response to Lauren's greeting.

“We're going to head out to the east entrance,” Nero continued as Lauren and Huang hopped off their respective thrones and made their way to the group. Newt followed closely behind. “I've sent some people as distractions in the western, northern, and southern sections for the few guards that are left. We'll try to sneak our way out but we'll have to use some brute force at the gates at least. There'll be another group to meet us there.”

Newt nodded. He was beginning to feel anxious at the prospect of more action. His finger itched to pull the trigger again, which was probably an inappropriate impulse.

“Let's go,” Nero declared, leading the way through the dark streets.

They headed eastwards under the cover of the night, walking quietly and listening intently for any kind of disturbance. The sound of their hushed breathing filled the air. Someone coughed behind him, a wet, hacking kind of cough that annoyed Newt so much he nearly turned around and punched the perpetrator in the face.

They were all antsy and jumping for a fight.

Gunshots sounded off in the distance followed by yelling. The rest of the members of his group seemed to hear it, too, their faces lighting up with anticipation.

Newt's hand began to sting again as he tensed. His heart thumped so loudly against his rib cage he was sure it would announce their presence to any nearby patrolling guards. But it did not, and they continued on for another ten minutes in silence, though it seemed more like an eternity.

The whole situation was oddly reminiscent of the tunnel he and the other Gladers had had to walk through to get to the Scorch. He half expected to hear disembodied voices telling them to turn back, to accept their fates. It seemed like such a long time ago now, as if it had happened to another person, not to him.

Suddenly, the group stopped moving. Newt perked his ears, trying to hear what it was that made Nero stop so abruptly. The sound of voices carried through the cold night. Guards. Newt could just barely make out their conversation.

“...gives me the creeps.”

“Fuck Justine. I asked her not to give us the night shift. Where the hell is Nick anyway? This is supposed to be his shift.”

“Gone.”

“...crazed bastards.”

Newt crept up to Nero's side, quickly growing impatient from waiting. “What's the plan?” he whispered.

Nero looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Eager?”

“We're just wasting our shucking time.”

Nero nodded. “I agree.” He turned back to face the rest of the group. “Alright, looks like our deadbeat friends are late to the party. Doesn't matter though, there's a lot less of them than I thought there'd be. We can do it ourselves. Mason, you lead an ambush in on the two guards on the farthest left. Brad, you go around and grab them from the other side. Everyone else, wait for my signal.”

Newt waited while half of the Cranks left the group to their assigned positions. Huang, thankfully, left with Brad. Those who chose to stay with Nero's group crouched down behind a couple of Dumpsters several metres closer to the guards. Newt could see them much more clearly now. There were about a dozen of them sitting around the main exit doors, smoking and gossiping. Their Launchers lay beside them on the ground with the exception of a couple held at the ready by guards who stood and patrolled their little area.

Nero lifted a hand and held up three fingers. The cranks next to him tensed, apprehension clearly marked on their faces. Two fingers. Their breathing hitched and grew quicker. One finger. Bodies pushed against each other, trying to move to the front. Then he whistled, a long, low note that rang in Newt's eardrums.

They all leapt into action at once, exploding in a chorus of cannibalistic growls and shrieks.

Newt's heart thrummed inside his chest as he pushed himself forward and into the fray.

The guards didn't even know what hit them. They turned around to face the oncoming crowd of guerilla warriors, their eyes wide and wild with fear. One of them yelled “fuck!” as the Cranks descended upon them. Somewhere, another one of the other guards was shouting for backup.

Newt found himself in front of a short woman who had been near the edge of the group of guards.

“Get –!” she managed to yell before he pulled the trigger and the woman fell to the ground in a burst of electricity. She seized on the floor, her eyes bulging and teeth gritted in pain.

The smell of fire and a wooshing sound past his ear alerted Newt to the fact that he'd just narrowly avoided getting fried. The number of Cranks had increased twofold as the late group joined the fight and so did the amount of friendly fire. He couldn't really expect rage-filled people to try to avoid hitting each other.

He dodged a couple other shots and looked for his next victim. A couple of feet away, Huang danced around a taller man. He'd lost his Launcher and was left with no choice but to avoid getting shot. He weaved from side to side, trying to get closer to the man without getting hit.

“Hey!” Newt shouted, grabbing the guard's attention before firing his Launcher. The guard shrieked in pain and fell to the ground, rays of electricity exploding all over his body. Huang quickly took advantage of the opportunity and grabbed the fallen man's Launcher.

“Haha, alright!” he cackled, cocking it and firing a shot into the air.

Newt was about to look around for someone else to fight when an unseen force slammed him into the ground. It took him a second to reorient himself and gain a bearing on what had happened. He was lying on his stomach. His head hurt and something heavy pressed down on his back and arms, pinning him into a submissive position. His weapon had skidded away from him, lost in the ensuing fight. He struggled to get free, wriggling his shoulders and kicking his feet at his assaulter.

“Get off of me!” he snarled, wrenching his head around. He could just make out a guard out of the corner of his eye. Then something made of cold metal pressed against the back of his head.

“Crazy motherfucks,” a voice growled, low and menacing, into his ear. Newt closed his eyes and waited.

BANG!

The weight on his back suddenly lifted and Newt sprung upwards. He swung around to see the guard's lifeless body on the ground, a pool of dark blood spreading around his head.

Nero stood on the other side of the body, an unrecognisable expression on his face and a freshly fired gun in his hand. He tucked the gun away in his waistband and looked back at Newt.

“You're welcome,” was all he said before walking past Newt.

He tried to follow but couldn't, his feet frozen to the ground where he was standing. The buzzing sound in his ears had returned, loud and drowning out the sounds of everything around him. The Munie guard's body lay in a contorted position, his arms and legs sprawled out in every direction. His eyes were wide open and glassy. Blood drained out of a hole in the side of his head.

He'd seen bodies before. Bodies of his closest friends, mutilated and torn in half. But this was different. He couldn't help but feel directly responsible for it. And the worst part of it was the small feeling of satisfaction deep within his gut that the man was dead. 

When had he become the villain?

“You coming, newbie?” one of the surviving Cranks punched him in the shoulder roughly. “Fight's over.”

“Y-yeah,” he stammered, looking away from the guard's corpse. About half of the cranks were still standing, the other half still writhing around from electrical shocks. The fortunate guards had been shot by Launchers themselves, the less fortunate ones were bleeding profusely from knife wounds or dead.

Everyone was leaving now, forcing the doors of the main exit open and stepping outside.

“What – what about our...” _friends_ didn't seem like quite the right word, “...allies?” he asked.

“Them? Nero says to leave 'em. By the time they recover, so'll the surviving guards and they'll probably have backup comin', too.”

“Oh,” Newt breathed, following the Crank to the doors, careful not to step on their fallen comrades. The gate itself was tall and constructed out of wooden planks and was currently unguarded, thanks to their efforts.

Nero ushered them out as quickly as possible, all the while telling them to hurry before backup arrived. They had no time to waste.

They all piled into a van some friend of Nero's had left behind a tree about a hundred metres away from the gates of the Crank Palace. Nero ran around the car, making sure that everyone who'd made it out of the city was secure inside.

Newt was fortunate enough to grab a window seat, which would have been nicer had they not all been packed together like a can of sardines. He craned his head around, trying to watch what Nero was doing. He'd moved to the back of the van and unlocked the trunk, rummaging around in the back before emerging with a can of gasoline.

“Lauren, help me out with this,” he ordered. Lauren hopped out of the van and pulled out another can of gasoline and something small and shiny. A lighter.

“Everyone wait here!” Nero shouted. He pulled a small remote control out from his pocket and pressed a little red button. The doors all locked themselves automatically. Newt pulled on the handle but the door wouldn't budge.

And so they waited. The van was facing away from where they'd come from, so he couldn't see what Nero was up to without turning himself completely around. Instead, Newt took the time to count how many survivors had made it. Old habit.

There were ten of them in total. They were all in various stages of fatigue and a couple had fallen asleep already. The worst injury Newt could spot was a large gash on his neighbour's cheek.

He assessed his own injuries next. Besides a few bruises on his back as well as a banging headache, the worst cut was still the one on his hand. At some point between their meeting at the library and now, it had begun to ooze green pus. He tucked the hand between his knees, starting to feel somewhat nauseated. It still didn't hurt that much – the pain would only come and go – but it was looking nastier by the hour.

A bright orange light filtered through the windows and onto his skin. He pressed his face against the window and turned all the way around, sitting on his knees so as to get a better angle.

A fire had been started at the exit of the Crank Palace. Giant flames licked at the wooden panels that made up the gates, destroying the entire eastern wall. He could just make out the tiny figures of Nero and Lauren running away from the giant blazing inferno they'd created. Dark, thick smoke billowed up from the centre of the fire where a chunk of wall had just collapsed in on itself.

Nero unlocked the front doors of the car and hopped in, barely giving Lauren enough time to get in the car herself before speeding away. Newt turned back to face the front as they drove eastwards. The road stretched far ahead of them, winding its way in between ice capped mountains.

He rested his head against the cold window, trying not to think of the people they'd left behind to get swallowed up in the fire and instead focused on the distant horizon line. He promptly fell asleep.


	9. Chapter Eight: Infection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally there was supposed to be another chapter between this one and the last one, but I decided to remove it because it was a dream sequence that I felt didn't really add anything to the plot. If anyone's interested in reading it anyway, I can upload it as a separate "deleted scene" or something.

Newt awoke with a start.

He groaned, raising a hand to his head. He felt groggy and disoriented, his mouth filled with cotton and his joints stiff.

His hand burned. He looked down at it, inspecting the injury he'd made two days prior. It had only gotten worse overnight. It was much more red and swollen now. He hissed as he attempted to ball his hand into a fist. He touched the area near the wound and stifled a yelp at the sharp pain. The skin was flushed and fevered.

“Kay, we're here. No one move a muscle until I tell you to,” Nero ordered from the driver's seat. The car door slammed as he left them behind. Newt shifted into an upright position, leaning his elbow against the window. The other Cranks were just waking up, their eyes filled with crust and their faces bunched up in discontent at being forced back into reality again.

It was still dark out, the stars only just beginning to fade as dawn approached. He could just barely make out the mountains they'd crossed in the distance, dark, hulking masses of land. A giant wall stood in front of them now. Newt shivered. It reminded him too much of the Glade and the Crank Palace. Was that how the world worked now? Erect walls around everything and hope that it wouldn't all crumble down?

Nero returned a few minutes later. He unlocked the doors for them and poked his head through the driver's side window.

“All of you, follow my lead. And try to keep yourselves under control.”

Someone cackled at that, but they all managed to release themselves from the vehicle without incident. The air outside was still crisp and chilly, perhaps even colder than inside the Crank Palace. Crickets chirped quietly in the distance.

Newt craned his neck to look at the giant wall blocking their entrance into Denver. It was at least thirty metres tall and stretched for miles in either direction. A small flock of birds flew over the wall into the city high above them. How were they going to break their way into this fortress?

Nero led them up to nearest gap in the wall, a tiny gated entrance with a heavily-armed guard standing next to it. Newt's heart stopped. Shucking guards were always getting in the way.

He was getting ready to pounce into action when Nero stalked up to the guard and shook his hand amicably. He nearly missed it, but he caught a flash of green pass between their hands and the guard nodded at them.

“Head on through. This alley leads into the nastier part of the district. Not too many copcars around.”

“Thank you, Frank. I'm glad we were able to reach an agreement.” Nero turned back to his band of Cranks. “We'll go through one by one. I'll lead and make sure there aren't any traps on the other end. Lauren, you bring up the back.”

“You got it boss.” She grabbed Newt by the shoulder. “Hey, buddy. Stay back here with me.”

He shrugged her hand off, irritated. “Bugger off.”

He didn't look back to see the expression on her face, but felt a sharp sense of satisfaction as she huffed in disapproval.

They made their way through the narrow gap one by one. The alley itself was dark and damp and smelled strongly of piss. He kicked aside a piece of unrecognisable trash, holding his breath so as not to puke. He gritted his teeth. The place absolutely reeked. It was disgusting.

Ahead of them, Nero unlatched a rickety, old fence that he supposed was meant to keep the rubbish from spilling into the city streets. His feet itched to run and push aside everyone else in front of him. They were taking too damn long, the single-file line they'd formed slowly making its way out of the alley.

He took a deep breath of fresh air as soon as he cleared the narrow, dirty passage. He felt as though he'd just been digested and spit out into the bowels of the city. High-rise buildings surrounded them, though they seemed old and ready to topple over onto each other like dominoes.

Nero led them down a few blocks, their footsteps echoing in the deserted streets. That was what annoyed Newt the most. This was supposed to be a city, a safe sanctuary for all those uninfected. Where were all the shucking people?

They kept walking for another five minutes, the other Cranks in the group grumbling and making small noises of general discontent, before Nero stopped and held his hand up.

“We'll be staying here for the time being,” he said into the silent, impatient air.

Their temporary lodge looked no more dapper than the rest of the buildings in the district they'd walked through. The front lawn, if it could be called that, was overrun with weeds and shattered pieces of glass.

“Oh, lovely,” Newt grunted. “Five stars, I'm guessing?”

Nero gave him a harsh stare. “Problem?”

“Yeah, problem?” someone behind him jeered, shoving him in the back – right where the guard who'd nearly killed him had left a nasty bruise.

Newt lashed back at the man who'd pushed him, nearly backhand slapping him in the face. “I'd just like to know what the shuck we're doing here, that's all!” His ears buzzed and his hand starting burning again.

The Crank who'd pushed him was a large, hulking figure of a man, his skin already beginning to show the effects of the Flare. The man's eyes flashed and he was about to pounce on Newt when a firm and stern hand settled itself on Newt's shoulder, breaking the tension between the two for a second.

“Newt, show me your hand,” Nero said into his ear. His voice was calm yet still commanded obedience.

“It's fine,” he retorted, reflexively covering it with his other hand. Quick as a snake, Nero whipped out and grabbed his hand by the wrist. He pulled it towards his face and spread the fingers out, squeezing it uncomfortably. Newt squirmed, irritated but holding himself back from fighting. He wouldn't have been able to escape from Nero's grasp if he tried. Nero had a death grip on his wrist, so tight it almost hurt.

“This thing's infected,” he declared, dropping his grip from Newt's hand. “When did this happen?”

“A while ago,” Newt deflected. “What's it buggin' matter? It's as infected as we all are.”

Nero finally dropped the issue and turned to the rest of the group. “We're all getting into a bad mood, I can see that, but there's a plan in place, I promise. In a couple days, a second wave of Cranks is gonna come in. We just need to lay low in the meantime, not draw any attention to ourselves, as difficult as that may be.” He gave Newt and his adversary a pointed look. “Copcars don't come by too often in this part of town. We'll be safe as long as we don't go stir-crazy.”

Nero procured a key from his pocket. “How about we all get some more rest? No need to start the day yet.”

As they all started to pile into the tiny, run-down house, Nero pulled him aside for a second. “I have something for you.”

Nero waited for everyone else to begin settling down before calling him into the bathroom. Newt followed him into a tiny adjacent room, ignoring the quiet mutters and jeers from the others. When he closed the door behind him, he found Nero rummaging through the cabinets, mumbling to himself something about how his connection had promised him they'd keep everything organised.

Newt sat on the toilet, his arms crossed, hiding his injured hand self-consciously. “Look, if this is about my hand, you don't have to worry. You're not my mum.”

“No, this isn't about that. Well – it is, but it isn't.” He pulled out a bottle of alcohol and cotton balls, setting them on the edge of the sink, which Newt had expected. But then he grabbed what looked like a rack of test tubes and a syringe from the bottom cabinet. The test tubes were filled with an unidentifiable colourless liquid.

He waited for Nero to explain himself. “Look, we're all a little high-strung here. That's – well, that's unavoidable. But – how long have you been infected?” 

“I told you, a while ago,” Newt retorted.

“No, I mean _you,_ not your hand.”

Newt eyed the man suspiciously. “I don't know. A month? Two?” The Scorch felt like lifetimes ago.

Nero filled the syringe with the strange, clear liquid. “Look – I'm not judging you here – but your state is pretty advanced.” He flicked the syringe with his middle finger. Then he paused, the expression on his face changing into a thoughtful one. “Guess how long I've been infected.”

“I don't know. Three months?”

Nero leaned forward,  his face uncomfortably close to Newt's. He could see every pore and crack in his skin. Nero's eyes were bloodshot around the irises and he had a scar on the bridge of his nose. He hadn't noticed that before.  “ Try  thirteen .”

Over a year?

Nero must have noticed the incredulous expression on Newt's face because he responded, “I know. I should probably be lying dead in a ditch somewhere at this point. Or definitely at least be way past the Gone.” He played with the syringe in his hand for a moment before continuing. “But I'm still alive and kicking. I mean, I look great, right?” He gestured to himself.

Newt didn't say anything.

“ Yeah, whatever. Anyway, my point is, I don't really know why I've been able to survive with my sanity for this long. Call it genetics, luck, the virus itself, I dunno... but I'll tell you what, giving in doesn't help.  You have to keep focusing on things that are real, set up goals for yourself. Even if it doesn't really mean anything to you, if you see yourself accomplishing physical things,  _real_ things, then at least you can focus on something else.”

Something about Nero's words rang true. After he'd been separated from his friends and sent to the Crank Palace, he'd been so quick to give up and accept life for what it was. He'd had no one else to take care of, to make sure that someone else besides him survived... It wasn't until he'd met Nero that he'd felt like he was a part of something again, something that involved more than just surviving until the next day. As much as he'd never really cared about going to Denver, he could at least admit that if it weren't for Nero's plan, he'd probably be rotting in a corner somewhere back at the Palace.

Nero began speaking again, his voice lower and more serious. “And sometimes, you have to admit when a virus is a virus. And for every virus, there is a treatment.” He lifted the syringe into the light.  “This'll help slow it down and... calm things. It's not a cure—”

“ I don't want it,” Newt interrupted. “I don't want to slow anything down. No point.”

Nero sighed exasperatedly. “I get it, trust me, I do, but we still need to calm things down. With everybody, not just you. You put a dozen half-gone Cranks in a room and what do think's gonna happen? Everyone will be getting a dosage of this tomorrow, anyway. I just wanted to do you a favor and give yours a little early. It'll help you sleep.”

Newt hesitated, staring at Nero in thinly veiled suspicion before extending his arm. “What is it?” he asked as Nero  tapped at a vein in his forearm.

“It's called the Bliss,” he responded  before stabbing the needle into his elbow.


	10. Chapter Nine: Bliss

The effect was immediate. It was as if the needle had shot some kind of sedative straight up through his veins all the way to his brain, washing out every thought and worry in his mind. He settled back in his toilet seat and let out the longest breath of his life, one he must have been holding since birth.

“Yeah, you feelin' that, buddy?” Nero patted the side of his face. His hand felt cold and clammy. It was very gross and Newt told him as much.

Except, all that came out of his throat was a guttural “...mmm...” His vocal chords vibrated with the noise. Ahhhhhhhhh.

Haha.

Ha.

His head! It finally felt empty, devoid of the bugs that kept chattering on and off ever since he'd been diagnosed with the Flare. It was gone, all gone, replaced by a watery sensation, as though someone had poured liquid into his skull.

He watched as Nero dabbed an alcohol-stained cotton ball to his infected hand. He didn't even feel the pain – well, that wasn't true. He could feel it in a disjointed way, as if the hand didn't really belong to him.

No – the hand was definitely his. It moved when he told it to move and Nero was getting mad at him for not staying still.

Okay.

_Still._

_Stilllllllllll._

He closed his eyes. Some small piece of him that was still connected to reality began to worry. What had been in that syringe? Okay, okay, relax. Keep... keep track. Of... body... side-effects.

His heart was beating incredibly slowly, whole worlds of thought passing through his head before the next thump. He swallowed. His tongue felt thick and his mouth was very dry. He could use a drink. It was also kind of hot...

“Done.” Nero's voice sounded so, so far away. It was as if he were speaking through a tunnel, the sound distorted and echo-y.

He opened his eyes again. Nero's face swam before his vision, making him look like some kind of distorted monster. Three eyes and two mouths danced around on his face, overlapping each other, multiplying, dividing...

“What are you laughing at?” Nero's teeth flashed as he spoke.

“Nothing.” He could feel his face breaking into a smile.

He shifted forward and took a look at his now-bandaged hand, clenching and unclenching it a few times. The wrappings made a funny noise as he did so. He poked at the white cloth with his other hand.

“Don't pick at it,” Nero ordered, prying his uninjured hand away.

Oh. Okay. He nodded and the water in his head sloshed around at the movement. He was ushered quickly out of the bathroom, Nero saying something about not being too obvious, otherwise the others would get jealous. Everyone would get theirs in the morning.Just get some sleep.

The other Cranks had spread themselves on every available piece of furniture, their legs and arms splayed in all directions. There was a lone, unoccupied spot on the floor near the coffee table. _That spot look_ _s_ _good_ , Newt thought as he stumbled forward.

Wait, no. Don't be obvious.

Okay.

Have to... walk. Easy. He'd been a runner, he could walk. Pfft.

One leg at a time.

Left.

Right.

Left.

Right.

Lef--

The floor ran up to meet his face.

This spot was good enough.

He settled down on the thin carpet, his legs wrapping around the nearest coffee table leg. The rug underneath his face felt rough and patchy and smelled of dirty feet. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of restful breathing and the stairs creaking softly as Nero made his way upstairs.

He took a deep breath, feeling the drugs flowing through his system, making him feel drowsy and content, then slowly drifted off to sleep.

 

\--

 

Faces drifted in and out of his consciousness, blurry and unrecognisable yet familiar all the same. He felt as though he should know who they were, but their names eluded him. He wanted to reach out and grab one of the faces, bring it closer to him so he could inspect it better, but found his arms were too heavy to do anything. He was so... so tired...

Finally, one of the faces seemed to grow more concrete, everything around it gaining substance until Newt found himself somewhere outside. A little girl stood before him, her long blonde hair shimmering in the setting sunlight.

She stomped her foot indignantly and called him a name he didn't recognize.

“Hurry up!” she was saying, “we're going to be late for football practice.” Her words shocked Newt for a second, but not because of what she said. She spoke just like him, with the same accent and intonation that he hadn't ever heard from anyone else but himself.

“What's the rush?” he heard himself say. His own voice was much higher-pitched than usual and he realized that he stood at about the same height as the girl, the top of her head only a few centimetres shorter. He was holding a football in his arms and had a rucksack strapped to his back. “We'll get there.”

She huffed some more and looked like she wanted to take off running, her fingers twitching and pace quick. She walked several paces in front of him, her shoulders tense as she checked every couple seconds to make sure he was still following. A look of worry crossed her face as she looked back at the school they'd just left.

Something was wrong.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she replied, facing forward again.

He kept quiet for another thirty seconds. They walked in silence before his – his _sister_ spoke again.

“Okay. Promise you won't tell anyone?”

“I don't know... you told dad I snuck out last week.”

“That's not the same!” she protested.

Newt wanted to keep teasing her, but it was clear that something was bothering her. “Fine, I promise I won't tell.”

She gripped his wrist and pulled him closer. Her eyes were open wide and she looked genuinely nervous. A part of him, the part still connected to the present, tried to memorize every detail of her face, desperate not to forget again. She was small round-faced and her eyes were a light shade of amber. Her lip quivered as she spoke.

“Something happened today. In class.” She took a deep breath before continuing to speak. “I don't know... I don't know what it was, but... you know Wayne?”

He felt himself nod, although his present self couldn't conjure up any memories of the other kid. It was as though there were a wall in his memories, keeping him from being able to see through to the other side.

She continued her story regardless. “Well... he wasn't paying attention in class. He was just drawing in a corner and Ms. G called on him and he didn't hear so she went up to him and...” she shifted uncomfortably, dropping her gaze down to her shoes. “Ms. G yelled at him.”

“So?” he responded, his voice sounding confused as to why that would upset her.

She squeezed his arm. “I've _never_ seen her like that, ever. It wasn't just yelling, it was... I was scared she was going to eat him alive!” Her voice shook at the _eat him alive_ part as though she meant it literally.

Newt pondered the implications of this for a second. Memories of public service announcements and news segments flashed through his mind. _BE FLARE AWARE..._

“D'you think...?”

“I don't know,” his sister replied curtly. She crossed her arms and started walking again, refusing to look him in the eyes.

“We're safe here, though,” he said, trying to remain positive, despite the distinct feeling of anxiety creeping up his chest. “They closed off the border months ago, no one can get in without being qua... quaran... tested.” His inability to form his mouth around the word _quarantine_ gave away how young he was. He couldn't have been any older than seven or eight.

“I know,” his sister responded. They continued walking in silence for several minutes, thoughts of what they'd seen on the news running through their minds. Just thinking about the Flare spreading throughout the rest of the world was enough to drive anyone crazy. The part of him that knew he was only remembering ached to go back, back to when the Flare was only a distant fear and not a harsh reality.

It wouldn't do any good to think about it. His past self set the football down and swung his rucksack around, digging his hand in one of the side pockets before finding what he was looking for.

“Hey, look what I found today.”

He pulled out a Tupperware container about the size of his hand and popped the lid off, holding the plastic box close to his body so as not to let what was inside jump out.

A fat toad sat in the centre of the container, surrounded by sandwich crumbs and a leftover piece of crust. It was big and covered in warts and looked to be entirely unamused with its current predicament.

“Ewwww!” his sister shrieked. “Can I touch it?”

“Yeah,” he said, extending the Tupperware towards her. “I found it during recess. I wanted to keep it a secret until later tonight but... it's okay if you look at it now.”

She hesitated before cupping the amphibious creature in her tiny hands and lifting it out, bringing it closer to her face. The toad swung its limbs around in vain before croaking softly and accepting its fate as a toy. His sister stared at it wide-eyed for several minutes, rubbing a finger on top of its bumpy head before speaking up again.

“It's so gross,” she said. “Like you.”

“It's ugly like you,” he retorted. The toad landed with a loud thwack as it slapped his cheek and dropped into his shirt. It began squirming in the space between his belly and the fabric of his shirt, clearly distressed at being tossed into a human boy's garment and looking for a way out. Newt screamed and danced around in place, the toad's little legs tickling him as it kicked and moved around.

Finally, Newt lifted his shirt and the amphibian dropped onto the ground, hopping away at top-speed into the tall grass.

They stood there, watching the bunch of grass where the toad had disappeared before bursting out laughing, the day's events already forgotten.


	11. Chapter Ten: Typhoid Newt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Typhoid Mary (noun): "A carrier or transmitter of anything undesirable, harmful, or catastrophic." [x](http://www.dictionary.com/browse/typhoid-mary)

Newt awoke to the sounds of water running, voices grumbling, and loud coughing. He lifted himself onto his elbows, the sensation of liquid draining out of his veins as the drug wore off. The soft buzzing sound was back again, droning on in the background of his head, making the room seem off-kilter. He shivered. The house felt substantially colder than it had when he'd fallen asleep. He was covered in a thin sheet of sweat, which didn't help matters much.

“Have a good night's sleep?” Lauren's voice shattered his eardrums. He flinched, barely opening his crusted eyes to glare at her. She frowned, obviously unhappy with his reaction, but left him alone.

He sat up on the balls of his feet and shook his head, trying to get rid of the unbalanced feeling in his brain. He rubbed a hand against his forehead, but the feeling refused to go away, so instead he opted to distract himself and take a look around the room.

Most of the members of their group were up and awake, having moved themselves to the dining table in the back. Nero was sat at the far end of the circular table, the others crowded around him in some bizarre rendition of The Last Supper. He held a single syringe in his hand and was presently injecting it into one of the Crank's elbows.

The reaction on the Crank's face was instantaneous. His muscles relaxed and he settled back in his chair like a ragdoll, his limbs loose and boneless. All expressions seemed to melt off his face and his eyelids fluttered closed.

Newt stood and stumbled his way over to the kitchen area.

“I want some,” he grunted.

Nero didn't even bother to look at him. “Get in line.”

Newt briefly considered arguing, but barely held himself back. He was hungry, anyway. “I'm starving,” he countered. “Food?”

“Not my house. Check the fridge.” Nero tilted his head in the direction of the refrigerator before turning back to the next Crank.

He yanked open the door and shoved the whole upper part of his body inside. His stomach growled loudly. He hadn't eaten anything since those apples in the bowling alley. It felt like aeons ago.

There was a pizza box and a six-pack of beer on the upper shelf. Whoever was in this house before them was a classy person. He tossed the pizza box onto the counter and flipped it open. Half a cheese pizza lay there, cold, stiff, and just about the most appetizing thing he'd ever seen in his entire life.

He grabbed a piece and stuffed it in his mouth, barely taking the time to chew before swallowing. It tasted like stale cardboard and was difficult to tear apart but it took the edge off of his hunger.

Then someone was breathing on him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up.

He turned his head slowly, positioning his torso above the pizza protectively like a deranged animal.

The same man who'd antagonised him the night before stood just behind him, his arms crossed and face puckered like he'd just sucked on a lemon. “Hey.” His voice was nasally and high-pitched, he noticed. Perhaps he _had_ sucked on a lemon. “You gonna share?”

“Finders keepers, mate. Get your own,” Newt snarled.

The man shoved him. “Give--”

Newt lunged before he could finish his sentence, grabbing the other man by the throat. The man gagged, stepping back in surprise. His hands reached up, gripping Newt's wrists and trying to pull him off before aiming a solid punch at his face. Newt flew backwards, crashing into the counter.

_Shank._

He pulled open the nearest cabinet full of silverware and removed a knife before swinging it forward and slamming it as hard as he could in the man's forearm.

“Gah!” he yelled, clutching at the wound. “You motherfucker!” Newt attempted to dodge his next attack but failed. The man managed to grab a fistful of his hair and yanked downwards, nearly decapitating him in the process.

“Stop!” Nero yelled, pulling them apart. “Enough! Sit the FUCK down and stop acting like fucking animals!”

He kicked two of the stools out from under the table and forced them on their butts. The other Crank continued to stare at him, making no effort to conceal the rage and hatred on his face. His sleeve was coated in dark red blood where the knife had injured him.

Nero grabbed the syringe and container of liquid from the table. “Alright, you two are next. I can't have any more fights on my hands, at this rate we'll all be dead by tomorrow.” He dipped the needle into the drug and lifted the plunger, sucking the liquid into the barrel.

“Hey! We've been waiting longer than they have! So, what, we gotta try and kill each other to get a fix?” one of the Cranks at the table complained.

“Yeah! What the fuck?”

“Fuck you!”

Their voices clamoured louder and louder over each other, their faces turning red and veins protruding out of their necks.

Nero snapped, grabbing the gun out of his waistband and shooting several shots into the ceiling.

“Shut the fuck up! Shut up, all of you! One more fucking word and I'll blow everybody's heads off!” He aimed the gun at one of the younger Cranks who froze at the sight of the weapon. Everyone stopped talking, too afraid to call him out on his bluff – if that's what it was.

They stood in silence for a few breathless seconds before someone finally spoke up.

“I'm not afraid to die.”

It wasn't until the gun swung around to face him that he realized he'd been the one who had spoken.

Nero glared at him for what seemed like eternity, the expression on his face unreadable. The tension in the room was incredibly thick and Newt waited for Nero to pull the trigger, put the gun down – for _something_ to happen. Then, as if some kind of spell had been broken, Nero began to laugh, a loud cackle that melted away the apprehension.

“I guess you've got a point there,” Nero responded when he was finally able to catch his breath. “Can't threaten the dead with death.” He put the safety back on the gun and holstered it. Newt felt a pang of regret as the gun disappeared into his waistband again.

“Any other wise guys in here wanna say something or can I get back to medicating all of you?” No one responded. “Good. You'll all get your dosage. We've got two more days until the second wave comes in, can we all just sit tight for forty-eight more hours, _please_? This shit ain't easy to get, either. Y'all should be fucking _grateful_.”

He picked up the syringe again and gestured for Newt to give him his arm. He extended his arm the way he'd done the night before and watched as the needle sank into his skin. The drug hit him like a derailed train, crashing into his brain and making everything wobble around. The itch in his brain went away and finally he felt like he could just _relax_.

Everything around him felt heavy and comfortable and _warm._ He could barely even keep his eyes open.

So tired.

So quiet.

Nero's words echoed through his brain as he felt someone lean over him and talk into his ear.

“Listen to me. Don't. Go. Anywhere. Stay... put...”

 

\--

 

Newt was somewhere outside. The skies were grey and the day dreary. Gorgeous. He was standing at a crossroads. Cars were driving up and down that crossroads.

He lifted his hand to wave hello to the people inside the tiny cars when he realized he was holding a hot-dog. Where had that come from? It was half-eaten. Had he eaten it?

It tasted good.

Oh! The little green walking man. Time to walk.

He stumbled forward into the street, each step soft and effortless like he was walking on a cloud. The pain in his ankle that had become such a constant part of his life had disappeared. It felt so _good_ , he could just cry.

Loud honking to his left. There was a car waiting to pass him. He hadn't quite crossed the entire street yet. The driver looked angry. What a shame.

Newt waved, almost dropping his hot-dog in the process, then stepped onto the pavement. Cars whooshed behind him.

He had no idea where he was or how to get back to the old house. The buildings along the side of the street where he was standing were a bit bigger and in better repair than in the neighbourhood Nero had dropped them into. He should have chosen one of these houses...

Something on a nearby utility pole caught his attention. A poster. He made his way over to it.

The words danced around on the page making them hard to read. Damn it! Just... stay still...

He gripped the edges of the paper and squinted his eyes.

_Public... Service... Announcement... Stop... Flare... Symptoms..._

Oh. Can't have people reading that. He tore the poster off the pole and crumpled it into a tiny ball. There was a dustbin sitting about a couple metres away in front of somebody's house. He tossed the paper ball in that general direction but it went flying into the street instead.

Oh, piss. He didn't want to litter. The last time he'd littered Zart had nearly decapitated him with his shovel.

Oh, no.

Zart.

Too sad.

Don't think about it.

Focus... focus on something else. On the other side of the street, just beyond the utility pole was a large poster of a woman. It was difficult to tell behind the obscene graffiti, but he could just make out the words “CHANCELLOR PAIGE LOVES YOU.”

Love.

The word opened up a pit in his chest, making him feel as though he were about to implode.

He kept walking.

 

\--

 

Dozens of people crowded around him, rushing back and forth while avoiding making eye contact with anybody else. They covered their mouths and noses with blue surgical masks or rags and kept going without stopping to their destinations. He tried to remember how he'd gotten there, but his mind kept drawing a blank.

He was in the middle of a giant dome-like building made of glass. Shops lined the walls and stretched out for what seemed like miles. A fountain stood in the centre of the plaza he found himself in, spraying clear, iridescent water into a basin.

He wanted to touch it.

He made his way through the crowd, accidentally bumping into a young woman.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, giving him a fearful half-glance before continuing on her way.

Newt paused, a realization bubbling up into the forefront of his drugged mind. That woman was probably infected. They'd touched, they're breathed the same air. Even if she'd survived their encounter, someone was going to get sick. Half the crowd had to be goners.

All because he existed and was present.

He was a walking virus. A silent weapon of mass-destruction.

He sat down on the rim of the fountain, his thoughts sluggish and heavy, already beginning to forget his recent revelation. Water droplets coated his back and hair, which felt incredibly cool on his flushed skin. He closed his eyes and relished the feeling of contentment, like cotton padded in between his brain and his skull.

When he opened his eyes, bright red cloth in his peripheral vision caught his attention. A guard had entered the plaza, the device that Damien had used on him held in his hand.

Oh, no. He couldn't go back. Not to the Crank Palace.

He let himself fall backwards into the fountain, splashing into the cold water. He tucked his legs underneath his body and crouched down, hiding underneath one of the jets of water spraying from the centre of the fountain. The water reached up to his knees, soaking into his clothes and making his jeans stick to his legs, but he ignored it as his heart woke up and started beating faster in anticipation.

He waited and watched as the guard paced past a few of the shops, harassing one of the passers-by for a little bit before walking into a shoe store. He breathed a sign of relief as the guard disappeared from sight. As much as the Bliss clouded his rational capabilities, he could at least tell that he wasn't supposed to get caught.

He was still sitting in the fountain, the sound of the jet stream above his head making him feel drowsy again. He was drenched and his body temperature had dropped a few degrees as the cold water seeped through his skin. He shivered and sneezed.

Perhaps he should leave now...

He crawled on his hands and knees over to the other side of the fountain and placed his hands on the rim, peering over the edge to make sure there were no guards.

People continued to walk to and fro, blissfully unaware of how close they were to infection. They seemed to purposefully avoid each other, ducking and weaving so as to avoid any skin-to-skin contact. There was at least a metre of space between each individual. He was about to pull himself out of the fountain when a familiar face caught his eye.

Except that wasn't possible unless... unless he was already dead.

Gally was sitting on a bench, alive and well, with a tablet in his lap. His fingers flew over the keyboard screen with such fluency it couldn't possibly be him. And yet there he was. He looked much worse than the last time he'd seen him, broken and bleeding on the ground of the final chamber. Despite the fact that Gally was wearing his own mask, Newt could still make out nasty white scars on the other boy's face crawling up from underneath the mask. His nose hadn't been set back in right since the beating he'd received and was permanently deformed. Despite his cool, and rather intimidating, demeanour, his eyes flitted from side to side as though he were looking for something – or someone.

Sure enough, a couple seconds later a man appeared from the crowd and sat next to him on the bench. They exchanged a few words – impossible for him to hear from this distance – then Gally picked up his tablet and left.

It was as though the sight of Gally's retreating back broke him out of his trance.

“Wait!” he shouted, his voice slurred and low. “Gall--”

He attempted to swing his leg up and over the edge of the fountain and pull himself over when his foot slipped on the wet floor and he crashed head-first into the ground.

 

\--

 

Night had fallen by the time he made it back to the dirty, old shack Nero called a hideout. He tried to remember how he'd gotten there, but failed completely. The last few – minutes? Hours? Days? He couldn't even tell how long he'd been gone – were a blur.

The Bliss had begun to wear out as evidenced by the anger gnawing at the edge of his brain.

He twisted the doorknob.

Aw, shuck it. The door was locked and the inside silent as death. He stumbled over to the window, the last of the Bliss making his actions clumsy and uncoordinated. His ankle was starting to ache again and his limp had come back with a vengeance.

He peeked through the darkened window. It was hard to see, but he could just make out the group sprawled around on chairs and various pieces of furniture. He reached underneath the window and pulled up. Thankfully, the thing wasn't locked and he managed to crawl through into the living room without making much noise.

“Hey, buddy. Nero know you went on a little adventure?” Huang's voice croaked out of the darkness. He was stretched out on a love seat, his legs kicked out on someone else's head like a footrest.

Newt mumbled something even he couldn't understand and collapsed on the coffee table.


	12. Chapter Eleven: Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written before the prologue for TFC came out. I decided not to change anything. I don't think it's been jossed too bad.

He couldn't have been older than four. He was playing on the ground while a woman Newt could only assume to be his mother watched television. He poked at his dog's side, punching his tiny fist into the soft white fur. The hulking St. Bernard huffed and lifted its head, snuffling at Newt's hair and licking his face.

“Yuck!” Newt spluttered, wiping his face with his shirt before jumping on the dog and pulling down on its ears in revenge. The dog didn't seem to mind, allowing Newt to crawl all over the poor creature. He sat on top of the dog's back, wrapping his arms around its neck. He gripped its thick collar and braced himself as it stood. He managed to maintain his balance for about 0.2 seconds before tumbling over.

Before he could register what had just happened, soft, yet strong arms swooped in from the sky and lifted him up. He clung to his mother tightly, gripping at her blouse as she tucked him underneath her chin.

“Oh, did we fall now? D'you want to watch the telly with mummy?” Her familiar, lilting accent put him at ease. He nodded and she moved back to the couch, settling herself down on the cushions.

He clung onto her like a koala bear, revelling in his mother's warm presence. Her heart beat steadily against Newt's ear, filling him with a sense of security. She smelled like strawberries and home.

She was watching some kind of show on the television – he could no longer remember what it was but for the fact that it was boring and girly. The voices washed over Newt and he was just about to drift asleep when the show was interrupted suddenly, the large, bright screen flickering for a moment before being replaced by a well-dressed man.

Newt's mother tensed underneath his grip and he watched the television, concerned. He could barely understand half the words the man was saying, but what he could make out frightened him.

“We interrupt this regularly scheduled programming to broadcast live the events currently transpiring throughout the Americas. Millions seem to have already been contaminated by the VC321xb47 virus, or as survivors have taken to calling it, the Flare. We'd like to warn viewers that the following images are considered graphic.”

His mother's hand covered his eyes but it was already too late. The camera cut to a shot taken from a helicopter of a city partially in ruins, fire engulfing abandoned buildings as people went insane, rioting and breaking everything in sight.

“Go to your room,” his mother ordered.

“But--”

“No. Now,” she replied firmly, pushing him away from the living room. Confused, he made his way up the stairs two at a time but stopped at the top. His mother hadn't followed him to make sure he obeyed. He crouched down and peered through the bannister. She was sat down on the couch again, her attention focused on the television screen. He could just make out what was on the TV from his vantage point.

The journalist's voice over continued as the images on the screen gradually worsened. “Not much is known as to what has caused the release of such a virus. Some have been speculating that it is a direct result of the Solar Flares of '18, others that the virus was accidentally released from a military facility located somewhere in the Andes mountains. As it stands, we can only provide preliminary information on the disease itself. Confirmed symptoms include, but are not limited to: Changes in personality, irritability, lack of empathy, auditory hallucinations, severe paranoia, dementia, blisters, and sudden coughing or difficulty breathing. If you or a loved one is or has been exhibiting any of these symptoms, for the safety of the community, it is highly recommended that you report them to the proper authorities. All cases are currently restricted to the Americas with a few unconfirmed cases in East Asia. All of Europe, including the United Kingdom, have already begun establishing strict border controls. Any individual attempting to enter the country will be subject to quarantine.”

With his last phrase, the camera settled on the video feed of a woman, her face completely destroyed and covered with scars and rashes. She was yelling something incomprehensible, saliva dripping out of her mouth and hands reaching forward for the camera.

Newt gasped and ran into his room, slamming the door behind him. He hopped into his bed and curled up into a ball, the image of the woman seared into his brain. He could still hear the muffled sounds of the television downstairs floating up through the floor, but he couldn't make any more of it out.

His mind spun. The Flare? He didn't know what that meant, but given the look of that woman, it wasn't anything good. They'd already survived one disaster, why did another have to follow?

He glanced at the globe his father had given him for his birthday on his bedside table. He reached out and traced the tips of his fingers on the blob of land he knew was his home. Then he traced his finger across the ocean to North America. His little mind tried to wrap itself around the idea of the distance between the two continents.

The sound of the bedroom door opening and closing behind him alerted him to the fact that someone had entered the room.

“I'm sorry for kicking you out.” The mattress sagged as his mother sat next to him. The same strong, supportive arms wrapped themselves around him and pulled him closer. “Are you alright?” A hand kneaded through his hair, rubbing reassuring circles on his scalp.

“How far is America?” he asked.

“Very far.”

“How far?” he insisted.

She sighed as she reached forward, grabbing the globe by the metal bar at the top and setting it on the edge of the bed.

“Look,” she said, pointing a finger at the expanse of blue between the two continents. “There's an entire ocean between us. The people can't swim all that way.”

“How big is the ocean?” Newt whispered.

“Oh, well, as big as your daddy's belly.”

She started blowing raspberries against his cheek. He giggled, struggling to escape from her arms.

“Stop!” he shrieked, flopping over like a fish out of water.

She obliged, gathering him close to her chest and kissing him on the forehead.

“Nothing will ever happen to you. Not as long as I'm alive,” she said, her voice soft yet determined. She hugged him tighter, the smell of her perfume wafting around him comfortingly.

“I promise.” 


	13. Chapter Twelve: Entropy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the big hiatus! I had midterms around the time of my last update and from that point on I just got so busy I had no time to work on this and then I kind of lost my train of muse... if that makes sense...
> 
> But the fic is finished now, so I hope you guys enjoy the last three chapters!
> 
> This one is the longest and also the most violent... have fun!

“Up and at 'em! Come on, let's go, busy day today!” Something loud exploded right in his eardrum. He screamed, holding his ear in pain. The noise reverberated through his skull, giving him an absolute migraine.

His eyes felt red and puffy as if he'd just been crying. His cheeks were wet, too. He wiped a hand across his face, annoyed that the others may have seen him crying in his sleep.

Nero stood by the side of the rotten coffee table holding two pots he was presently banging together.

“Glad you made it back last night after I _specifically_ told you not to leave.” Nero hit him in the back of the head with one of the pans. Newt let loose a vicious snarl like a wild dog.

“Yeah, whatever. I'm cranky, too,” Nero replied before heading off to wake the others. “Hey, do me a favour. I'd like to know how the _fuck_ you managed to evade the guards for two whole fucking days. Could come in handy for us later.”

Newt sat up, tucking his head between his legs as he acclimated himself to the feeling of the Bliss wearing off. His brain felt like it had been stuffed with insects, but only on one side, clamouring and festering somewhere just behind his eardrum, making the inside of his skull itch. He scratched at his head but of course couldn't quite reach inside. It was infuriating.

He tried to remember the past two days but his brain could only come up with snippets of images. Cars... people... a hot-dog...? Everything else was white, as if the memories were obscured behind a dense fog.

The rest of the Cranks had all woken up at this point and were in varying states of displeasure. A couple were rubbing at their heads as well and one was clawing the skin on his arm to shreds. The sanity they'd all been able to keep in check the last few days wouldn't last much longer.

“Alright, gather round. We actually have a plan today,” Nero announced, placing himself in the centre of the group. Even he was visibly beginning to show the effects of his own disease as he twitched and made an effort to keep his face set in a neutral expression. A nasty rash had spread up from underneath his shirt through his neck.

“Got any more of that Bliss?” one of the Cranks interrupted.

“No,” Nero snapped. “We'll need our wits about us. We're gonna break in the rest of the Cranks today.”

Everyone seemed to perk up at this. Newt couldn't care less. They could all rot in hell.

“We're gonna make our way to the front gate, knock out some guards, and pull the doors open.”

Someone else in the room guffawed. “Looks like we need a new leader, this one's brain's been fried!”

“Shut it!” Nero barked before pulling himself together again. “These are not normal circumstances. Munies have been disappearing without reason, the number of Cranks in this city has increased by tenfold within the last month, at least! There's more of us than there are of them, and given the right timing, these walls will crumble like tissue paper. They are completely unprepared and _we_ need to take advantage of that.” He took a breath, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “You're right, though. Us alone won't be enough. But we're not alone. Half of the Crank Palace is gonna be banging their grubby fists against the outer wall in a couple hours time. And I can promise you that there's a least a couple hundred Cranks within these walls. Just give this fortress a little pressure from both sides and the whole system will collapse.”

Newt shuffled into an upright sitting position. His patience for this insipid conversation was wearing thin.

“So? What are we doing then?”

 

\--

 

They were to make their way over by one of the main entry zones at the northern wall on the other side of town. Considering the size of their group, cabs were not an option. They'd have to take the RTD to get there – whatever that meant – and without attracting any attention.

Great.

Nero was determined that it would be possible. He would impersonate one of the red-shirted guards and the rest of his group would act as his trainees. With that kind of disguise, most people would ignore them either out of fear or respect. Didn't really matter which.

Those who still had their weapons from the breakout three days prior got to carry them again. Newt silently cursed. He'd lost his back in the fight and a quick scan through the kitchen drawers revealed that the knives had been removed. He could only hope somehow that they wouldn't need to use any weapons at any point, which was ridiculous. Of course they would.

They gathered themselves at the entrance to the old house and waited while Nero changed into uniform. He tried to avoid making eye contact with the Crank he'd stabbed two days ago, but he could tell the man was giving him the stink eye. The man – Newt realized he didn't even know his name and didn't really care enough to find out – had his shoulder wrapped in gauze and carried a drill in his right hand. Newt briefly entertained the idea of asking him to share his weapon, but was pretty sure that that would result in having a hole drilled through his head. So he shuffled his feet and twiddled his thumbs until Nero emerged wearing the standard red shirt and mask and they started making their way to the nearest RTD stop.

 

\--

 

The RTD public transportation system was composed of a series of bus lines that would help citizens get from one end of the city to the other. Ever since the Flare epidemic, the buses had been improved to help prevent the spread of the disease. Every bus came with complementary surgical masks and seats no longer touched each other so that contact was no longer necessary. It wasn't much – in fact, it was nothing at all in the face of an extremely contagious airborne virus – but it at least gave people a false sense of comfort.

Newt made sure to sit near Nero once they got on the bus. He still didn't really trust or like any of the other Cranks and he still had questions. Thankfully, Nero seemed to be right about one thing. No one else on the bus dared to look any of them in the eyes. He watched as a mother and child got on the bus after them. They were both wearing masks, but the little girl kept toying with hers, taking it off for a few seconds before her mother would put it back on, scolding her all the while.

Newt couldn't bear to watch any more. He turned to Nero instead. “What are we doing... once we get there?”

“Breaking the others in,” Nero responded, as if that answered everything.

“Oh, yeah, I'm sure that'll be really shucking easy,” Newt spat. “Aren't there, like, fifty buggin' layers of security?”

“To get in the city there are,” Nero answered, his response surprisingly level-headed. “But not to get out. Good thing we're already on the inside, huh?”

Newt was about to ask more when a red-shirt – a _real_ red-shirt – entered the bus. Newt's heart lodged itself in his throat. That was it – they were done for, there was no way he wouldn't notice the dozen infected people in the vehicle with him.

“Good morning,” Nero nodded at the guard.

“Morning,” the guard responded, his gaze flickering over the Cranks. “These yours?”

“Yep,” Nero answered nonchalantly. “Just been showing them the ropes. Not much activity today.”

“No, thank God.” The guard sat on the seat directly across from them. “I haven't seen you around before. You normally take this shift?”

“Nah. I usually work at night, but I was able to get that changed recently.” Nero scratched his nose as he spoke.

“Nice. That's when the crazies come out.”

“Oh my gosh! Have you ever done the night shift?” Lauren's high-pitched squealing interrupted their conversation. She sat down in the seat next to the guard, leaning forward eagerly. She twirled her long blonde hair with one hand and placed the other on the man's shoulder.

Newt seethed. Out of all the times to be flirtatious...

Luckily, the guard seemed to enjoy Lauren's attention. He smirked and puffed his chest out a little. “I had it for a few weeks. Worst time of my life. I'm sure your supervisor has told you all about that.”

“Ohhh, no he really hasn't.” She pouted at Nero before flying into the guard's lap. “Say, what's your name?”

“Jimmy,” the man replied, sneaking a hand onto Lauren's hip. “And yours?”

“Lauren,” she gave him a toothy smile that would have terrified the living klunk out of Newt. “How long have you had this job, honey? See, I've always wanted to be a guard, but the Cranks still _scare_ me.” She wrinkled her nose in a way that Newt supposed she probably thought was cute.

“Ya get used to 'em.” Jimmy brushed a hand through her hair and Newt nearly gagged.

“I sure hope so.”

Newt rolled his eyes, trying to focus on literally anything but the disgusting flirting going on in front of him. The bus had 36 seats which were occupied by 25 people, the seats were blue with an odd green and red pattern that reminded him of confetti, there was an empty soda can crushed underneath his seat, his armrest was kind of sticky... God! Could the bus just crash into something already, end his bloody suffering?

Thankfully, after a few more minutes, the conversation ended as Jimmy glanced up at the monitor that displayed the bus's route. “Listen, I gotta get off at this next stop. I'll see you around, okay? Let me know if you ever need a hand.” He winked at her before getting up and off the bus.

“Bye!” she waved at him. Newt watched incredulously as Jimmy waved back.

Lauren turned back to face them, her eyes brimming.

“What the--” Newt started, but Nero held him back.

“Bonnie?”

“I got you, Clyde!” Lauren whipped out a small rectangular piece of plastic from her pocket and tossed it to Nero. It was Jimmy's ID.

“That's my girl.” They high-fived each other and Lauren skipped back to her original seat.

“What was that you were saying?” Nero asked him as he tucked the ID into his pocket. “Fifty layers of security?”

“Uh...”

“Newt, let me tell you something that I've learned during my year as a Crank. People think that there are only two types of infected. Either you don't know you're a Crank yet, or you're already past the Gone. They don't consider the fact that you're still human for the first, what, three months on average? That's why they throw us into those hellholes they call Palaces. They don't think about the fact that we can still manipulate, lie, and cheat our way through the system. Governor Forester's been doing it for months. But nah, according to the media, we're all rage-filled assholes in need of some serious anger management.”

Newt gulped, at a loss for words.

“But yeah, it's still gonna be a shitshow.”

 

\--

 

They arrived at the northern wall about half an hour later, Nero leading the pack as they approached the main gates.

He pressed Jimmy's ID against an electronic pad. A green light flashed and the door clicked open. Nero stepped through first, gesturing for the others to follow. Just beyond the door was a very narrow hallway painted sterile white with bright fluorescent lights.

Another guard stood inside, a gun held at the ready.

“ID number?”

“587250597,” Nero recited from memory.

“Who are these people?” the guard gestured towards the group.

“My posse.” The guard quirked an eyebrow at that, clearly unamused. “They're the new interns. Now can you please put the gun down? It's making me nervous.”

“What were you doing with the interns?” The guard still looked at them suspiciously, but he lowered the gun. “They're not supposed to be called in today.”

“I was just showing them my routine. Extra credit,” Nero responded. “We were just gonna put our weapons away for the day, if that's okay with you.”

“Yeah... yeah, that's fine.” The guard stepped back and let them pass through. Newt averted making any eye contact with the man for fear that he'd see through their ruse. They made it about ten steps in before the guard yelled, “this one's infected!”

Newt whipped around to see the guard gripping one of the Cranks by his sleeve, pulling down the Crank's shirt so that the boils on his neckline and shoulder were clearly visible.

Before Newt could even choose whether to fight or run, the guard's head exploded. He fell backwards against the wall, blood flowing out of the bullet wound between his eyes. The sound of the gunshot echoed through the tunnel and several alarmed shouts followed somewhere deeper in. Suddenly, the white fluorescent lights were replaced with red rotating beacons and a siren came to life.

“Fuck!” Nero swore, swinging his gun forward. “There's cameras everywhere. Everyone take out your weapons now!”

Newt felt naked as everyone cocked their Launchers and whipped out their knives. He was completely defenceless.

“We have to get to the main control room,” Nero yelled above the noise. Their shadows danced on the walls as the alarm cast its red light over the tunnel. “It's somewhere in here!”

Two more guards turned the corner at the end of the hallway, wearing bulletproof vests and protective masks. They each had their own heavy rifles and were shooting at the crowd. Newt instinctively ducked behind another Crank, his hands covering his ears. The sound from the siren was awful, piercing his eardrums and waking the insects inside his brain.

Cranks collapsed all around him, splotches of blood growing on their limbs and torsos. A man standing to his right screamed as he fell over, dark red blood seeping through his fingers as he held his shoulder. The Launcher he'd been holding skidded across the floor.

Newt dived forward, crawling on his hands and knees to where the Launcher had landed. Shots flew over his head as he neared the weapon. A bullet singed his ear, just barely missing his head. He hissed and pressed a hand against his ear while continuing to crawl forward with the other.

He wrapped a fist around the Launcher's grip, quickly pulling it back towards his body and rolling to the side as another shot whizzed by his leg, tearing the fabric of his jeans.

He took a deep breath to calm his nerves and stood, taking in the sight around him. Half of their group was already on the ground, either bleeding profusely or dead. One of the guards had already been incapacitated by someone's Launcher while the other knelt on the ground, Nero's gun pressed against her nape.

“Don't fucking move! Don't fucking move and drop the gun,” Nero ordered, stabbing the barrel of the gun into her neck. She obeyed, letting go of the gun and letting it clatter on the floor. She was breathing heavily, her face pinched in frustration. She glared at the remaining Cranks, making it clear she did not enjoy their company.

“Get up,” Nero said, kicking her in the back of the knees to get her to stand up. “Thank you. Now, you're gonna make this nice and easy for us. You're gonna take us to the main control room and I _won't_ put a bullet in your head.” He wrapped an arm around her chest and set the gun against her temple. “Everyone else stand around me. Fresh guards'll be showing up any second and I'd appreciate having a shield.”

The remaining six gathered around Nero and the woman, their backs to the centre of the circle. Newt did the same, the Launcher in his hands giving him a sense of security.

They started shuffling down the tunnel, their shoes squeaking on the linoleum tiles. Newt had to walk backwards as he found himself standing behind Nero and the female guard. The infernal alarm continued to blare, irritating Newt to no end. The insects inside his head didn't like the noise either. They seemed to work overtime, running around and through the crevices in his brain, settling somewhere in his amygdala. He gritted his teeth and shook his head, trying to shake the bugs out but to no avail. Shuck! If he didn't get to shoot some guards now, he'd just turn around and blast everyone to pieces.

To his luck, another handful of guards appeared around the corner as they turned to the left. There were three running towards his end of the circle and, from what he could hear, another couple running in from ahead. He shot a grenade at the nearest guard, just barely hitting him in the arm. Bolts of electricity raced up his arm through his torso and he fell to the ground immediately, his friends barely managing to manoeuvre their way around him. Shots and shrieks up ahead alerted Newt to the fact that a few more of his Crank brethren had fallen. Huang screamed a series of expletives in Chinese as he broke the formation and ran at the remaining two guards. He just managed to shoot one guard in the neck before crumpling on the ground as the other retaliated. Newt didn't even have to time to check to see if Huang was okay before the last guard lunged at him, guns blazing. He only just managed to dodge to the side to avoid getting hit. The Crank who'd been standing to his right wasn't so lucky. Several red splotches appeared on her chest before collapsing, dead.

Newt was preparing himself for the next shot to be aimed at him when Nero's commanding voice broke through the din. “One more shot at any of my friends and she dies now!”

Newt twisted around to see Nero facing the last guard, one arm pressed tightly around the female guard's waist while the other held his gun up to her temple.

“And then I kill you,” Lauren threatened, her own weapon aimed at the last guard's chest.

“Sabrina?” the guard turned towards the woman trapped in Nero's grip.

“They're not lying,” Sabrina grunted. “They want to get to the main control room. Finn, they're going to open the doors--”

“Shut up!” Nero's grip tightened on her diaphragm and she gasped in pain.

Finn twitched, clearly fantasizing about killing Nero, but he kept himself under control.

“Just back away,” Nero said. “Leave and we leave you alone.”

Finn and Sabrina exchanged a look before he started leaving, the expression on his face marked with sadness and frustration. The moment he turned around, something metallic flew past Newt's peripheral vision and landed right in the back of Finn's skull, chopping his head in half. When he fell, Newt could see it was a large butcher knife roughly the size of his fist.

“Oops,” Lauren said. “My B.”

Sabrina shrieked, rage twisting the features on her face as she struggled to get free. She kicked out and flailed around wildly while screaming. “You fucking bitch! Fuck you, you maniacs! I'll fucking kill you, _SHIT_!”

“Oh, please, did you really think I'd let him go?! You told him our plan, he was going to do _something_ about it, I mean, did you see the eyes he was giving you? Talk about star-crossed lovers, damn,” Lauren yelled back. “Come on, Nero, let's go.”

She continued to struggle before Nero reminded her that she still had a gun aimed at her head as well as three other Cranks who wouldn't hesitate to kill her should she escape. She quieted down after that, though her eyes still reflected an intense amount of fury.

They continued making their way down the labyrinthine hallways, ears perked to hear any other oncoming guards. None came, which put Newt on edge. Where were they? There were only four Cranks left from their original group; Nero, Lauren, the young Crank Nero had threatened back at the house, and himself. The younger Crank was shaking, his eyes wide and nose flaring. They kept quiet as they moved, not daring to say a word for fear it would attract more guards. Only Sabrina would break their silence, spouting directions and slowly leading them deeper in. The alarm continued to blare, but it was starting to sound a little fainter now, as if it was tired. Or perhaps he'd just gotten used to it.

“The main control room's up ahead,” Sabrina finally said. She looked sad and exhausted. Hair had come out of her ponytail and gave her a dishevelled look.

Nero paused. “How do we know you're not lying?”

“Because I'm not,” she simply replied.

Nero took a moment to consider their options before finally deciding to trust her. “Alright. Let's go, then.”

They walked up the hallway for another few metres before stopping in front of a door. There was a sign above the door that read MAIN CONTROL ROOM.

Before anyone could react, Sabrina slammed her weight down on Nero's foot, forcing him to loosen his grip on her. She wriggled out of his grasp and whipped around, grabbing Nero's wrist and bending it so that he was aiming the gun at himself. The gun went off and Nero fell backwards against the wall, a bright red splotch of blood growing on his stomach.

Lauren let out a high-pitch screech, grabbing Sabrina by the hair and slamming her on the floor. She grabbed the gun Nero had shot himself with and emptied the round into Sabrina's back. The gunshots echoed down the hall and were answered by more yelling as a fresh group of guards approached.

“Shit,” Lauren swore, tossing the gun at the ground. She ran towards Nero and shook his shoulders vigorously. “Nero, fuck, you still alive?”

“Not if you keep shaking me like that!” Nero grunted, his voice full of pain. He pressed a hand down on his bleeding wound and tried to sit upright.

A bullet zinged past their heads.

“The backup's coming,” Nero groaned, “try and cover me.”

“Yeah,” she nodded, standing and picking up her Launcher. “This is all I have, though.”

“Maybe you shouldn't have used the rest of the bullets on her.”

“Maybe she shouldn't have shot you!”

Another bullet ricocheted off the wall as the guards grew closer. They were only about ten metres down the hall now.

Newt turned to the main control room door. He twisted the doorknob but it wouldn't budge. The damned thing was locked. Another electronic pad sat on the wall next to the door.

“EXCUSE ME!” The young Crank next to him yelled loudly, his face red with frustration. Judging by the sudden outburst, he must have been trying to grab their attention for a while now. He pulled out a gun from his pocket. “Will this help?”

“Where'd you get that?” Nero asked, incredulous.

“It was hers,” he gestured to Sabrina's body. “You asked her to drop her weapon. So I picked it up.”

“Smart boy!” Nero cackled, then coughed, wincing at the pain.

“Well, stop gloating and help me, then!” Lauren shouted, hopping over to Nero's other side and beginning to blast grenades at the incoming guards. He didn't seem too happy about it, but the boy obeyed and started shooting as well.

Newt was about to go and assist them when Nero grabbed him by the arm.

“No, no... I'm gonna get you in there,” he pointed at the door. “First, rip off a piece of your shirt for me.”

Newt hesitated before deciding that he didn't really want to see Nero bleed to death before tearing off a strip of cloth. Nero did the same with his own shirt and began to bandage the wound himself – poorly, but efficiently enough.

“What--”

“Shut up. Get to the door. Is it locked?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of lock?”

Newt leaned forward to inspect the rectangular piece of technology latched to the door. In the centre of the lock was a circular piece of glass with a darker hole in the middle, like the end of a telescope. He peered through the hole but flinched when a red light flashed within. He stepped back and the words INCORRECT MATCH – INFECTED flashed above across a tiny screen above the hole.

“It's an eye scanner,” Newt said. “We need an eye.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” Nero grunted from his position on the floor.

Newt glanced at Sabrina's dead body thrown on the ground like an abandoned doll. Lauren had left her lying flat on her belly, her carcass covered in blood, the bullet holes in her back standing out sharply against her red uniform. Her head was turned to the side and eyes were open and glassy, devoid of life.

“Worth a try,” Nero spoke up again, watching as Newt stalked forward towards the body.

He knelt down and placed his hands underneath her armpits before dragging her towards the door. She was surprisingly heavy, her whole body sagging with the weight of gravity. Her head lolled back and forth as he moved her and he suppressed the urge to vomit at the sight of the streak of blood left in her wake.

When he made it to the door, he gripped her waist and tried to lift her up as best he could. The glass portion of the lock was at eye level so he would need to hoist her up as though she were standing. He wrapped one of her limp arms around his neck and gripped her leg with one hand while holding her waist with the other. He grunted as he made the effort to elevate her up to eye level. Her head leaned back onto his shoulder and he shrugged so as to get her head to bend forwards. It did, but just left of the screen where he needed her eye to be. Shuck, why was this so hard? He pressed a foot against the wall so as to gain leverage before letting go of her leg and gripping the back of her head and slamming it against the screen.

The machine beeped and the words CORRECT MATCH – UNLOCKED flashed above.

Newt dropped her unceremoniously on the ground and wiped at his jeans. His hands were covered in blood now and his shirt was permanently stained with dark red splotches. He picked up his weapon again, then gripped the handle of the door and twisted, pushing it open, trying his best to ignore the hand shaped blood-print he left behind.

On the other side was a medium-sized room with control panels spreading from wall to wall. Dozens of screens lined the front wall above the control panel.

Movement flashed from the right and he ducked just in time to hear something crash against the door above his head. He turned around to face his assaulter, a short, brown-haired lady. She was holding a fire extinguisher in her hands which had undoubtedly been the object that had been aimed at his head. He slammed the door closed behind him and hopped to the side as she swung again.

“Stop that!” he yelled, aiming the Launcher at her chest. She stopped at the sight of the weapon and raised her hands.

“Drop the extinguisher.” Her eyes opened wide, her face marked with fear, but she obeyed, setting the extinguisher down on the ground by her feet. He kicked it and watched as it rolled underneath the control panel.

“Please don't hurt me,” she whimpered. She wasn't wearing the mechanical mask that the rest of the guards had equipped. She didn't even seem to have any kind of weapon besides the fire extinguisher. _She's not a guar_ _d,_ he realized.

“Fine. Just stop trying to hurt _me_ ,” Newt responded.

“You're a Crank,” she said, as if that wasn't obvious.

“Well, aren't you bloody brilliant,” he spat sarcastically. The flickering images on the screen caught his eye. He walked closer, wanting to get a better look. Each screen was labelled a different number and each one showed a different hallway. Newt recognized some of them as the passages they'd taken to get there. There were still Cranks and guards lying in pools of blood on the ground.

“You saw us coming.”

“Yeah,” was all she said. “There's a lot of protocol, but none of them ever assumed that a Crank would get this far.” She paused and her voice turned harsh. “What do you want?”

“I have to – have to open the doors,” he answered. Yes, that had been his task. He was finding it hard to think all of a sudden, like his brain was caught in a pit of molasses. For a horrifying moment, he couldn't remember his name.

“I can't let you do that.”

He turned to face her again, his brain chugging along, trying to keep up. She was standing farther away from him now, a hand covering her mouth and nose.

“Are you going to stop me?”

Her eyes flashed. “No. But I'm not going to help you, either.”

He looked back at the control panel. Hundreds of little buttons covered the surface of the table. Oh.

“Okay,” he sighed. His eyes skimmed over the tiny words scrawled in between some of the buttons, searching for any words like “open” or “door.” It couldn't have been that easy, of course. He couldn't understand half the words on the panel and the flashing colourful buttons irritated his vision. He pressed a button at random and winced as a loud alarm blared somewhere over his head.

“Shuck!” he yelled and started slamming down on all the buttons and levers, adrenaline coursing through every vein in his body. His ears rang with the sounds of insects crawling in and out of his brain. It was _unbearable._ _BUZZZZZ ZZZZZZZZ POP POP ZZZZZZZZZ SLKSLK_

 _No! Stop!_ He pressed his hands against his ears, screaming loudly in a fruitless effort to drown out the noise. _ZZZZZZZZ SLKSLK MMMMZZZZZZZ_ _ZZZSLKLSK_

 _Get out of me!_ He slammed his head on the control panel several times, ramming his forehead as hard as he could onto the buttons, hoping desperately to dislodge the critters that had somehow gotten inside his head.

_THUD_

_SLKSKLK_

_THUD_

_ZZZZZZ_

_THUD--_

 

_._

 

_.._

 

_…_

 

It was quiet. Thankfully, mercifully, quiet. He lifted his throbbing head and took a moment to piece together what had happened.

The screens on the wall in front of him had changed to show a very different image. Instead of broadcasting the inner halls of the compound, the screens were now focused on a scene going on just outside. Hundreds of Cranks had gathered outside one of the outer walls and were collectively slamming their bodies against the metal exterior. They looked like a swarm of locusts rather than people. It was impossible to tell where one Crank ended and the other began.

They were ruthless, grabbing and scratching at each other in order to get closer to the wall. He watched an old lady get trampled underneath the stampede, her hands clawing at the doors before disappearing altogether.

On the bottom corner of each of the screens in red text read CAMERA YF518343 NORTH.

A small computer a few feet away lit up. He walked up to it, squinting his eyes to read what was written on the screen.

YF518343 NORTH EXTERIOR

AWAITING DATA INPUT

Five seconds passed and the screen changed again.

DATA INPUT FAILED. ACTION?

He had no idea what to do. So he typed “open” and pressed enter.

Surprisingly, the computer seemed to react.

OVERRIDE? Y/N

His finger hovered over the Y button. He hesitated. Was he really going to override the whole system with the click of a button? He looked back up at the screens where the crowd of Cranks had grown even more rowdy. The camera itself was shaking as the Cranks used one of their own as a battering ram. They were an unstoppable force. They'd destroy everything. Something wriggled in the pit of his stomach, making him feel queasy and anxious. Uncertainty. What was he doing here? Random, eerily familiar words popped into his mind. _**All in all, the walls will fall...**_

The door to the control room slammed open behind him. Someone screamed and it was all he could do not to start randomly shooting Launcher grenades at everything in sight. Did everything have to SCREAM?

It was Nero. He was leaning heavily against the door, a hand pressed against the bullet wound in his side. He was sweating and looking like he was putting a lot of effort into just standing.

“Have you done it?” Nero coughed out.

The sentry freaked out at the sight of the new Crank and ducked underneath the far end of the control panel.

“What the hell was that?”

 _ **The walls ARE very small.**_ “S-sentry,” Newt stammered. He found it difficult to speak as a slew of more random words entered his mind unbidden. _**Small like Samuel? Samuel was the same as the sad sacrifice.**_

“Goddamnit, shoulda known there'd be someone else in here.” Nero twitched his head in the direction where the woman had disappeared. “Get her. Bring her out.”

 _ **Bring bright breakout?**_ Newt shook his head. “That's not necessary. She's – she's not going to do anything.” _**Anything but bring swing cling.**_

“Doesn't matter. Go!” he ordered when Newt didn't move.

Newt obeyed, making his way over to where the woman had disappeared underneath the control panel. He crouched down and tried to peer into the darkness _**what a mess!**_ when something hard and blunt crashed into Newt's face.

He grunted at the pain and gritted his teeth, pure red fury beginning to pulse through his veins again. _**How dare** **the damsel in distress damage the dead?**_

The sentry scrambled out from underneath the control panel and started running for the door. He grabbed her by the leg, making her stumble to the ground before she could get anywhere. She screamed and squirmed in Newt's grasp but he sank his claws into her skin, refusing to let go. He watched, transfixed, as she flailed around, the muscles underneath her flesh bulging and moving as she tried to escape. He felt the strangest urge to bite her, to chomp down on the meat in the back of her leg, just to see what it would be like.

She delivered a sharp kick straight onto the side of his head, forcing him to loosen his grip. She wriggled away from his grasp and managed to make it out into the hall before he could even move.

Newt pressed a hand against his head, feeling nauseated and frustrated at the same time.

“Gotcha!” Lauren's voice rang out from the hallway. “Where you think you're going...?” _**Where do you think you're GOING? Going, going,** **GONE** **...** _ “Get back in there. Nice and slow.”

Newt tried to stand, but nearly fell over in the process. Oh... whoa... it was like the whole world had been tilted just a little bit to the right, making it difficult to even stand properly. The buzzing sound started behind his eardrums again. He shook his head but the nauseating noise wouldn't go away. _**Nauseating noises need to** **not** **needle** **.** _

“Just spit it out!”

Newt turned over in Nero's direction. Somehow, in the few seconds it took for Newt to stand up, everything in the room had changed. Everyone was gathered around in front of the computer. The woman had been forced to sit in a chair while the Lauren and the other kid each had their weapons aimed at point-blank on the back of her neck and the side of her head. Nero sat on the control panel, arms wrapped around his abdomen. The computer screen next to him had changed so that now the word OVERRIDE was replaced with PASSWORD.

“Hey, you're not dead!” His voice grated against Newt's eardrums. The flies buzzing around his head didn't like it either. “Good. Get the fuck over here.”

 **“** _ **F** **uck shuck stuck in the muck**_ **,** ” he blurted out. What the shuck was his problem? Couldn't the slinthead see how _**buzzed** _ he was? He stumbled his way over to Nero regardless, more because his body took him there rather than by any active choice to do so. It was like his body was moving faster than his brain, impeded by the slur of random words, and his brain was stuck trying to catch up to what he was doing.

He almost didn't catch Nero's next words, the buzzing sound in his head making it difficult to hear anything but his brain's nonsensical ramblings. “Give me your phone.” The words were directed at the sentry as Nero held out his _**hateful harmful** _ hand in her direction. The woman stared at him, resolutely refusing to move, her expression one of intense dislike.

“Left pocket,” the woman finally said. _**L** **awless** _ Lauren reached forward into said pocket, draping her body uncomfortably close over the woman and breathing wetly into her face. She pulled out a small, rectangular piece of plastic and tossed it at Nero.

He caught it flawlessly, flipping the phone over in his hand before turning it on and playing with it. They stood in silence for another few seconds until Nero finally spoke up, turning the device so that the screen was facing the woman.

“Who's Minnie?”

“My sister,” the sentry replied, her eyes refusing to rest on the screen.

“You called her twenty minutes ago. We were halfway through the tunnels then. What'd you tell her?”

“To lock herself in the basement and stay there until I call her back.”

“No. Stupid.”

“Excuse me?”

Instead of responding, Nero glanced down at the phone again before handing it over to Newt. “Destroy it.”

Once again, Newt's body moved before his mind even had a chance to process what Nero had said. His hand threw his phone to the ground and his foot crunched the device underneath his heel. He slammed down on the phone repeatedly until nothing was left but shards of plastic. He stared at the pieces of technology underneath his shoe, only just now beginning to comprehend what he'd done. Why had he done that? The woman shrieked in anger in her seat.

Nero pointed to the crowd of Cranks banging at the city walls. They'd somehow grown even more frenzied and violent in the past few minutes. If they didn't open the walls themselves, the Cranks would probably obliterate them until they were nothing but rubble anyway.

“You think your sister will be able to escape from that? They'll find her. Doesn't matter if she's buried herself twenty feet underground.”

The woman squirmed, the firm resolve in her face dissolving. “She doesn't have to escape. Just lock the door and--”

“Look, lady, I know my Cranks. Anyone who stays within the city will be dead or infected within the next 48 hours. Help me open the gates and I'll let your sister know exactly how to get out of here without encountering a single Crank. Don't help me and I'll get them in somehow anyways and both you and your sister will die.”

Nero pulled out his own phone from his pocket and dangled it in front of her face.

She stared at the phone for a few moments before finally speaking up.

“W...” _**w** **hat?** _ “I... ” _**i** **...** _ Nero spun around and started tapping the password into the computer as she dictated them, but Newt could hardly pay attention now, the stream of random words running through his consciousness suddenly becoming unbearable. “ C... K....”  _ **c** **an't...** _ “ E... D...” – _**d** **on't** **don't deal with death** **last breath** **make or** **break big mistake rattlesnake** **what a headache outbreak annihilate** **assassinate evacuate exterminate fate--** _

Another buzzer sounded somewhere within the confines of the building, mercifully breaking the nonsensical rant inside his head. Then silence. Newt could feel himself swaying back and forth, barely able to keep his balance at this point. He watched the cameras as the giant walls parted and wave after wave of Cranks poured in like a tsunami. There were thousands of them, each one crazier than the last, climbing over each other and trampling the smaller and weaker ones. The floor beneath his feet vibrated, the sensation starting in the soles of his feet and making its way up into his chest and head _**t** **he vibrations reverberat** **ing** **venomously** **violent virus son of a lot of fought brought fraught all for nought –**_ they had made it outside somehow, Nero dragging him along by the sleeve of his arm. He tried to look around, confused, trying to figure out where he was and what was going on but he couldn't remember his name or what he'd been doing or who he was. Alarms blared and people screamed – _**senselessly sounding** **so sober sobbing softly suddenly said simon –**_ Where was he? – _**w** **here who what why when whoa nelly what a horse who needs water** **w** **hen the sun sets we'll sink soon--**_

Sentience came to him once more, only long enough for him to wish for death before losing himself to the static again.


	14. Chapter Thirteen: Going, Going, Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Clanging_ : "In psychology and psychiatry, clanging refers to a mode of speech characterized by association of words based upon sound rather than concepts. For example, this may include compulsive rhyming or alliteration without apparent logical connection between words. This is associated with the irregular thinking apparent in **psychotic mental illnesses**." [x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clanging)

_**zzzzzzzzzz buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz the buzzing bugs in his brain bruising zones sticks and stones break bones but words are birds that get the worm warm swarm storm chloroform germ from them what a shame same sane in the slum in a slump with the mumps and bumps and frumps clumps humps hunts confronts at once one won once whence its commence sans defence at his expense so intense what an offensive pretence it's just my sixth sense keep us in suspense it's a capital offence hence this fence mince convince the prince to wince there's footprints to follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow follow wallow what a hollow world when i, i an eye for an eye from writing in the sky so high why i said it was too soon under the bright full moon but by noon it'll be june and i'll be immune monsoon typhoon maroon lagoon strewn balloons what a buffoon loony beauty ratatouille we free winning spinning brand new beginning meaning nothing something white something wicked** _

 

_**something WICKED this way comes** _

_**something WICKED this way comes** _

_**something WICKED this way comes** _

_**something WICKED this way comes** _

_**something WICKED this way comes** _

_**something WICKED this way comes** _

_**something WICKED this way comes** _

_**something WICKED this way comes** _

_**something WICKED this way comes** _

 

_**comes in mazes phases to justify the chases with subtle phrases amazes zeroes to heroes here oh (no please) with ease easels seashells by the seashore she sells souls so (stop stop stop stop) plots plants pots lots of tsunamis but tommies--** _

 

_**tommies** _

 

Tommy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter took the longest out of any other to write and i'm still not 100% satisfied with it... oh well...
> 
> if anyone else is as fascinated as me by linguistic zombies (kinda like the Rose Stole My Nose guy) I highly recommend the movie Pontypool, which was one of the biggest inspirations for this chapter and for having Newt's disease develop in this way.
> 
> The next chapter will be the last. :)


	15. Chapter Fourteen: 250

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains dialogue from The Death Cure. All of that as well as The Maze Runner and its characters, etc. are © James Dashner.
> 
> Well, this is the last chapter. I'd like to thank everyone who's left feedback on this fic, every single comment and kudo has meant so much to me. <3 This is my first fic that I've published online and I hope to publish more in the near future. I have a to-do list of future fics that I want to get out and I'm (hoping) to get the next two out before TFC gets released. So if you like my writing, please be sure to give my future fics a chance, too! 
> 
> I also want to start getting into the community more and reading/commenting on more fics when I have the time because there's so many good fics that deserve more attention on this website!
> 
> So, anyway. Enjoy.

“Hey, Newt. It's me, Thomas. You still remember me, right?”

Recollection rained down on him as the festering fog lifted.

Tommy stood several metres away from him. He looked just the same as when he'd last seen him, with the exception, perhaps, of the heavy bags underneath his friend's eyes. His hand was stretched forward hesitantly, as if afraid that Newt would bite him if he tried to move any closer. A wisp of memory flashed through his mind, an image of that same expression of worry on Thomas's face, of crackling fires and the smell of disease, of the thumping sound of bowling balls being thrown around as his friends tried to convince him to go with them instead of killing him on the spot.

“I bloody remember you, Tommy. You just came to see me at the Palace, rubbed it in that you ignored my note. I can't go completely crazy in a few days.” Irrational anger surged through him as he spat the words out. _**Out without a doubt about to have a blowout scream and shout--**_

“Then why are you here? Why are you with... them?”

He turned to look at where Tommy was pointing. Nero, Lauren, and the other kid were gathered around a heap of rubbish, tearing through the pieces of discarded food like savage animals. He couldn't remember how they'd gotten there or at what point they'd lost it as much as he had, but at the present moment they seemed... alive enough.

“It comes and goes, man. I can't explain it. Sometimes I can't control myself, barely know what I'm doing. But usually it's just like an itch in my brain, throwing everything off-kilter just enough to bother me – make me angry.”

“You seem fine right now.”

“Yeah, well. The only reason why I'm with these wackers from the Palace is because I don't know what else to do. They're fighting, but they're also a group. You find yourself alone, you don't have a bloody chance.”

“Newt, come with me this time, right now. We can take you somewhere safer, somewhere better to...”

_Die?_ Newt thought bitterly. _To die a dreadful death._ He laughed and the bugs inside his brain laughed with him.

“Get out of here, Tommy. Get away.”

“Just come with me,” Thomas insisted. “I'll tie you up if it makes you feel better.”

Shuck it! Again with the mercy talk! He was never going to bloody listen, his words would only ever just bounce around Tommy's thick, empty skull. His blood boiled and he clenched his fists, barely keeping himself from lunging forwards.“Just shut up, you shuck traitor! Didn't you read my note? You can't do one last, lousy thing for me? Gotta be the hero, like always? I hate you! I always hated you!”

Tommy flinched, but it didn't matter, nothing mattered, he didn't really care about him, never had, it was all just a game, trying to be the best. He was just collateral damage. “Newt--”

“It was all your fault! You could've stopped them when the first Creators died. You could've figured out a way. But no! You had to keep it going, try to save the world, be the hero. And you came to the Maze and never stopped. All you care about is yourself! Admit it! Gotta be the one people remember, the one people worship! We should've thrown you down the Box hole!”

_**HOLE MOLE** _ _**EAT HIM WHOLE DOWN TO THE SOUL NO CONTROL--** _

****“Newt, stop. Just listen to me. I know you're okay in there. Enough to hear me out.”

“I hate you, Tommy!” The words were flying out of his mouth now, like poison darts releasing the growing anger he'd been harbouring. “I hate you I hate you I hate you! After all I did for you, after all the freaking klunk I went through in the bloody Maze, you can't do the one and only thing I've ever asked you to do! I can't even look at your ugly shuck face!”

He was much closer now, mere steps away from Tommy. He could see Tommy's eyes dilated in fear, his lips twisted in an expression of worry and hurt. Good.

Tommy took two steps back. “Newt, you need to stop. They're going to shoot you. Just stop and listen to me! Get in the van, let me tie you up. Give me a chance!” That was it. The shuck coward wouldn't kill him.

Before he knew what he was even doing, Newt shrieked and pounced, the anger of a thousand insects crawling through his veins propelling him forward as he closed the distance between himself and Tommy. The sound of a Launcher exploded somewhere behind him, but he kept running, slamming into his former friend with as much force as he could muster. They collapsed onto the ground together and Newt crawled onto Tommy's body, gripping his shoulders and pinning him down.

“I should rip your eyes out,” Newt spat, relishing the thought of digging his hands into the other boy's face. “Teach you a lesson in stupidity. Why’d you come over here? You expected a bloody hug? Huh? A nice sit-down to talk about the good times in the Glade?”

Tommy shook his head. He could feel the other boy shifting underneath his weight but he was already on a roll, memories and emotions flowing through his head.

“You wanna know why I have this limp, Tommy? Did I ever tell you? No, I don't think I did.”

“What happened?” Tommy had a weapon in his hand. He could feel it, could see a glimmer of metal out of his peripheral vision. A gun.

“I tried to kill myself in the Maze. Climbed halfway up one of those bloody walls and jumped right off. Alby found me and dragged me back to the Glade right before the Doors closed. I hated the place, Tommy. I hated every second of every day. And it was all… your… fault!”

Newt twisted and grabbed Tommy's hand, jerking it upwards and slamming the gun against his forehead. The skin on his forehead tingled at the pressure of the cold metal. “Now make amends! Kill me before I become one of those cannibal monsters! Kill me! I trusted you with the note! No one else. Now do it!”

Tommy tried wrestle his hand away from Newt's grasp, but Newt had a death grip on the boy's wrist. “I can't, Newt. I can't.”

“Make amends! Repent for what you did!” Newt screamed, his head surrounded by flies. -- _ **Lies just a guise keeping his eyes on the prize rise skies wise just let me dies--**_ “Kill me, you shuck coward. Prove you can do the right thing. Put me out of my misery.”

“Newt, maybe we can--”

“Shut up! Just shut up! I trusted you! Now do it!”

“I can't.”

“Do it!”

“I can't!”

“Kill me or I'll kill you. Kill me! Do it!”

“Newt...”

“Do it before I become one of them!”

“I...”

“KILL ME!”

The words resonated within his own head, and suddenly he was aware, a state of lucid consciousness he realized he hadn't been in since the Scorch, maybe even before. He was straddling Tommy's torso, pinning him down on the ground with the weight of his body while forcing the other boy's hand against his forehead. Tommy was breathing heavily, shaking in fear as Newt's nails dug into his wrist, keeping the weapon in place. He'd never seen his best friend look so fearful before, despite everything they'd been through. Nothing, no Griever, no horribly dilapidated monster that WICKED could've concocted unsettled Tommy as much as the state that Newt was in.

He swallowed thickly, the words that he was about to say sticking in his throat.

“Please, Tommy. Please.”

He watched as Tommy's eyes hardened and felt the muscles in his hand tighten befor--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to make one last note here that, given the canon of TMR, I have no clue how Newt could possibly know about the first Creators dying (aka the Purge) as iirc, Thomas himself didn't remember it until after Hans' surgery and the Purge itself didn't happen until a year into the Maze Trials (which means Newt wasn't around)... so... plot-hole?
> 
> Maybe TFC will answer that somehow, we'll see.


End file.
